RANTHORPE 


BY 


GEORGE  HENRY  LEWES 


j'avais  rntre}-)ris  iinc  lutte  insensee ;  je  combattais  ia  miscrc  avec 
ma  plunic. 

H.  DE  Bai.zac. 

\\  ie  verfiihrt  die  Natur,  um  Hohes  und  Niedres  im  Menschen 
/u  vorbinden  ?     Sie  stellt  Eitelkeit  zwischcn  hincin  ! 

GOTHE. 


NEW   YORK 

WILLIAM  S.  GOTTSBERGER,  PUBLISHER 
11    MURRAY    STREET 
1881 


PRESS  OF 

WILLIAM  S.  GCTTSBERGER 

XHW  YORK 


LH 


R 


a 


TO    HER 

^V^iO    HAS    LIGHTENED   THE    BURDEN    OF    AN    ANXIOUS 
LIFE,    THIS    WORK    IS    INSCRIBED    BY 

HER   HUSBAND 


395752 


P  R  E  F  ACE. 


Ranthorpe  was  written  five  years  ago. 

No  one  will  doubt  that  it  has  in  many  respects 
profited  ])y  the  delay  in  publication;  yet  it  has  not 
escaped  the  evil  of  that  tendency, 

To  add  and  alter  many  times, 
Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten, 

of  which  the  most  fastidious  of  contemporary  poets 
complains;  and  which  made  Schiller  question  the  ad- 
vantage of  Horace's  celebrated  noniun  preinatur  ifi  an- 
num. So  that  when  I  state  that  the  one  volume  now 
];resented  to  the  public  was  originally  three,  the  critic 
will  easily  understand  how  certain  faults  of  construction, 
and  sins  against  I 'art  dc  confer,  arose  from  so  great  a 
change  in  the  structure  and  proportions  of  the  whole. 
Of  these  faults  I  became  aware  only  when  too  late — 
when  reading  the  proof  sheets ;  and  all  that  now  re- 
mains is  to  confess  and  apologize. 

That  the  faults  are  not  more  numerous  is  owing  to 
the  admirable  criticisms  of  two  eminent  friends,  who 
paid  me  the  compliment  of  being  frankly  severe  on  the 
work  submitted  to  their  judgment.  Sensible  of  the  kind- 
ness in  their  severity,  1  have  made  them — what,  for  an 
author,  must  be  considered  as  a  magnificent  acknowl- 
edgement— I  have  adopted  all  their  suggestions ! 

London,  April,  1847. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK     I. 

THE    poet's    first    STRUGGLES. 

CHAPTER  I.  Page. 

The  Three  Students ? 

CHAPTER  II. 

Isola    .....;. lo 

CHAPTER  III. 
Early  Struggles I5 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Le  Premier  Pas 24 

CHAPTER  V. 
Rantlinrpe  becomes  a  Journalist    .         .         ,         .         .         .         .29 

CHAPTER  VI. 
The  Orplians •         37 


BOOK     II. 

THE    LION. 

CHAPTER  I. 
The  Iviterary  Lion 47 

CHAPTER  II. 

The  Poet  out  in  the  World  ^ 54 

CHAPTER  III. 
The  Medical  Student ^ 


VI]  f  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IV.  I 'age. 

The  Lovers'  Meeting 62 

CHAPTER  V. 
First  Lessons  of  Adversity      .         .- 70 

CHAPTER  Vf. 
The  Two  Sister;-) 74 

CHAPTER  YH. 
Wynton"s  Stor} 78 

CHAPTER  Vin. 
Poor  Isolu Q4 

B  O  O  K     111. 

'IHE    UNSUCCESSFUi,    AL'THOK. 

CHAPTER  f. 
The  Aristocraey  of  Intellect lor 

CHAPTER  11. 
Priez  pour  Ltii loT) 

CHAPTER  HI. 
Expiatic»n 108 

CHAITER  IV. 
New  Hopes 117 

CHAPTER  V. 
The  Rending  of  the  Play 121 

CHAI^TER  VI. 
Cosa  Scabrosa 126 

CHAPTER  VII. 

The  Dramatist  with  the  Manager 129 

CHAPTER  Vm. 
Reheaj-sals 135 

CHAPTER  IX.     ' 
The  Tragedy  is  Performed 140 

CHAPTER  X. 
.\spiration  and  Inspiration i4i> 

CHAPIER  XI. 
Despair   ............  153 


CONTENl'.S.  IX 

B  O  O  K     I  V  . 

STRUGGLES    \V[TH    CIRCUMSTANCE. 

CHAPTER  f.  Page. 

Tsoiu  in  her  Retreat 165 

CHAPIER  II. 
The  AwM 171 

CHAPTER  Ul. 
Woman's  Love 17S 

CHAPTER  IV. 
The  Woof  is  Weaving 182 

CHAP  TER  V. 
Night  of  the  Murder ,        .        .       192 

CHAPTER  VI. 
'{'he  Pursuit 201 

CHAPTER  Vn, 

The  Turning-  Point sio 

CHAPTER  Vni. 
T}ie  Miseries  of  Genius  .........  214 

HOOK     V. 

TSOLA. 

CHAPTER  [. 
The  Havvbiickes 223 

CHAPTER  H. 
jealousy 243 

CHAPTER  rn. 

Tlie  Surgeon 255 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Yes :   Harry  is  in  Love 258 

CHAPTER  V. 
The  Betrothment 261 

CHAPTER  VI, 
The  BirtlKliiN 266 


X  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  V\l.  Page. 

The  Dream         , ,        .       272 

CHAPTER  Vni. 
Waking  Dreams  and  Waking  Sadness 283 

CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Sacrifice 287 

CHAPTER  X. 
Reconciliation 291 

CHAPTER  XI. 
Love  is  Blind  ;  Couch  not  his  Eyes  ......       297 

CHAPTER  XII. 
Denouement 306 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
The  Lovers ,         .         .         .       310 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
The  Couse  of  True  Love 315 

CHAPTER  XV. 
Peal  the  Marriage  Bells .       323 

Epilogue .         .         .325 


RANTHORPE. 


BOOK    I. 

THE    poet's    first    STRUGGLES. 

How  like  a  younker,  or  a  prodigal, 

The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay  ! 

Shakspeare. 

Mir  gliiht  die  ganze  Seele  bei  dem  Gedanken  endlich  eininal  auf- 
zutreten  und  den  Menschen  in  das  Herz  hinein  zureden,  was  sie  sich 
so  lange  zu  horen  sehnen. — Gothe. 


RANTHORPE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE    THREE    STUDENTS. 


By  solemn  vision  and  bright  silver  stream 
His  infancy  was  nurtured.     Every  sight 
And  sound  from  the  vast  earth  and  ambient  air 
Sent  to  his  heart  the  choicest  impulses. 

Shelley. 

It  was  a  cold  November  night.  Holborn  was  noisy, 
murky,  and  sloppy.  A  drizzling  rain  descended  through 
the  haze :  the  chilHng  haze  of  a  London  winter  night. 
Streams  of  brilliant  gas,  reflected  from  gilded  lamps  and 
pillars  in  those  splendid  mockeries  named  gin-palaces, 
flashed  at  intervals  through  the  darkness,  calling  atten- 
tion to  the  orgies  there  perpetrated :  where  brutal  vio- 
lence, sodden  depravity,  low  cunning,  vice  in  all  its 
hideousness,  and  poverty  in  its  desperate  wretchedness, 
had  assembled  to  snatch  a  moment's  delirium  or  a 
moment's  oblivion  of  the  bitterness  of  existence.  Om- 
nibuses, cabs,  waggons,  and  trucks  rolled  past  with 
ceaseless  rumbling  din.  There  were  the  brawls  of  mis- 
erable women  reeling  from  public  houses,  and  the 
scuffles  with  pickpockets  emerging  from  Saffron  Hill. 
The  sloppy  pavement  clacked  beneath  the  feet  of  the 
crowding  passers-by. 

Amidst  this  noisy,  cheerless  scene,  standing  at  one  of 
the  numerous  book-stalls,  was  a  youth  of  nineteen,  who. 


.'4  ::•;•*'.•.•"  :    ■  rani-horpe. 

his  hands  and  feet  benumbed  with  cold,  had  been  stand- 
ing for  half  an  hour,  gloating  with  hungry  eyes  upon 
the  treasures  there  displayed.  He  was  enveloped  in  a 
camlet  cloak,  the  scanty  j^roportions  of  which  just  suf- 
ficed to  hide  the  poverty  of  his  garments,  and  to  ward 
off  the  rain.  He  had  no  gloves,  and  his  hands  were 
purple  from  the  cold.  His  hat  betokened  the  fidelity 
of  an  ancient  servitor;  it  was  scrupulously  brushed, 
and  shone  from  repeated  wettings.  In  a  word,  the 
youth  looked  hke  a  clerk — and  was  one. 

Those  who  looked  a  little  closer,  however,  might 
have  seen  that  there  was  something  in  this  youth's  face 
which  belied  his  dress — an  air  of  refinement  and  com- 
mand— a  look  of  the  English  gentleman,  which  is 
peculiar  to  our  nation,  and  to  one  class  in  that  nation. 
The  mouth  was  very  remarkable :  it  was  voluptuous, 
and  yet  refined ;  full,  yet  delicate — the  mouth  of  a  poet. 
The  eyes  were  of  a  deep  blue;  long  and  somewhat 
languishing,  and  shaded  with  the  sweetest  fringe  imag- 
inable. The  forehead  was  delicately  cut;  the  chin 
weak  and  faltering.  A  physiognomist  would  at  once 
have  pronounced  him  to  be  a  remarkable  person ;  but 
somewhat  defi[cient  in  strength  of  will. 

This  youth  was  Percy  Ranthorpe. 

His  eyes  wandered  over  the  titles  of  the  volumes  so 
temptingly  displayed;  but  nothing  came  within  reach 
of  his  finances.  His  was  a  Barmecide  feast;  he  cared 
not  for  rare  editions,  large  paper  copies,  or  sumptuous 
bindings.  His  hunger  was  for  knowledge;  he  had  a 
passion  for  books — no  matter  what  editions,  what  bind- 
ings; he  cared  not  even  whether  they  had  covers  at  all 
He  only  thought  of  the  price. 

After  enviously   opening    many   a  volume,   with   a 


THE    THREE    STUDENTS.  5 

secret  consciousness  that  his  looking  at  the  price  was 
all  a  magnificent  juggle  with  himself,  as  he  was  certain 
not  to  be  able  to  pay  it,  yet  still  pleased  with  even  an 
imaginary  purchase,  he  at  last  came  to  a  tub  filled  with 
dirty  ancient  books.  From  this  tub  rose  a  stick,  bear- 
ing a  piece  of  card-board,  on  which  was  written : 

ALL   THESE    BOOKS    dd.   THE   VOL. 

Here  possibilities  merged  into  actualities;  he  could 
purchase:  to  the  length  of  sixpence  he  could  indulge! 
Accordingly,  he  began  to  handle  the  volumes  with  a 
sterner  and  more  business-like  air.  But  he  was  long  in 
making  a  choice. 

While  thus  engaged,  another  young  man  stopped  at 
the  stall.  Percy  made  room  for  him;  but  the  new- 
comer only  stopped  to  light  a  cigar  at  the  jet  of  gas; 
and  was  about  to  move  on,  when  he  was  accosted 
rather  boisterously  by  a  third. 

"Hollo!  Harry,  is  that  you?  Well,  how  are  you, 
old  brick?" 

"How  are  you,  Oliver?  What  have  you  been 
doing  with  yourself  for  the  last  century  ?" 

'''Oh!   flaring  up!" 

"That  of  course.  I  v/as  at  the  masquerade  last 
night — so  jolly  drunk!"  This  Harry  uttered  with  the 
complacency  which  young  men  often  assume  when 
speaking  of  their  vices;  and  Percy  looked  up  involun- 
tarily, but  soon  continued  his  search,  though  unable  to 
avoid  hearing  their  conversation. 

"Oliver,  are  you  going  to  the  Cider  Cellars  to- 
night?" 

"  Don't  know.  Short  of  tiii.  Spent  a  couple  of 
sovereigns  last  night." 


6  RANTHORPE. 

Two  sovereigns  in  senseless  dissipation,  thought 
Percy,  and  with  two  sovereigns  how  many  books  might 
he  have  bought! 

He    again    looked  up,  and    this   time   scanned   the 

■  friends  more  closely.     They  were  evidently  two  medical 

'^^  students;    and  as  they  are  to  play  important  parts  in 

''         this  drama,  I  may  as  well  complete  Percy's  observations, 

"  and  briefly  paint  their  portraits  for  the  reader's  beneht. 

Harry  Cavendish  was  a  student  of  St.  George's.  In 
his  appearance  there  was  something  at  once  prepossess- 
mg  and  repulsive:  a  mixture  of  the  gentleman  and  the 
Mohock.  His  coal-black  hair  was  trained  into  one 
long  curl  on  either  side  of  his  cheeks;  thick  black 
moustaches  graced  or  disgraced  his  upper  lip;  his  hat 
was  slighdy  cocked  to  look  jaunty;  he  carried  a  formi- 
dable stick;  and  smelt  strongly  of  tobacco.  Yet  his 
dark  eye  was  full  of  fire  and  intelligence;  his  open 
laughing  face  was  indicative  of  malicious  mirth  and 
frankness;  and  the  resolution  about  his  brow%  and  sen- 
sibility about  his  mouth,  redeemed  his  slang  appearance, 
and  showed  the  superior  being,  beneath  the  unprepos- 
sessing exterior. 

Oliver  Thornton  belonged  to  the  Middlesex  Hos- 
pital. He  wMs  heavy  and  clownish-looking;  with  a 
large,  pale,  sensual,  and  rather  placid  countenance, 
the  predominant  expression  of  which  was  sleepiness, 
strangely  mixed  with  cunning.  It  seemed  as  if  his 
small  twinkling  eyes  were  in  perpetual  struggle  with  the 
somnolent  disposition  of  his  other  features.  It  was  a 
thoroughly  disagreeable  face. 

The  two  students — ''arcades  ambo — blackguards 
both" — walked  on,  and  Percy  felt  quite  relieved  by 
their  absence.     Their  whole   tone   was  such  as   could 


THE    THREE    STUDENTS,  7 

not  but  be  displeasing  to  him;  and  he  sighed  to  think 
of  their  money  squandered  and  time  lost,  both  of  which, 
had  he  possessed  them,  would  have  made  him  the  hap- 
piest of  men! 

He  had  his  sixpence,  however,  and  books  were  be- 
fore him.  An  odd  volume  of  Shelley's  poems,  somewhat 
tattered,  turned  up;  and  now  his  hesitation  was  dis- 
pelled at  once.  He  marched  with  it  into  the  shop,  paid 
his  money  with  feverish  delight,  and  hurried  home- 
wards in  triumph. 

As  he  turned  up  King  street,  his  way  was  stopped 
by  a  crowd  of  people  assembled  round  an  athletic  cos- 
termonger,  who  was  beating  his  donkey  in  so  brutal  a 
manner  that  several  persons  were  crying  "  Shame ! 
shame ! "  The  man  only  looked  fiercely  in  the  direction 
of  these  cries,  and  recommending  the  interferers,  in 
language  not  the  most  polished,  to  mind  their  own 
affairs,  continued  to  wrencli  the  mouth  of  the  animal, 
whom  he  almost  stunned  with  a  heavy  stick.  Percy 
was  about  to  spring  forward,  when  he  saw  Harry  push 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  followed  by  Oliver. 

"What's  the  row?"  said  Harry;  and  on  learning 
the  state  of  matters,  he  went  up  to  the  costermonger 
and  said:  "  Now,  then.  Carrots,  none  of  that.  Is  that 
the  way  you  treat  a  servant  and  a  brother  ?  Have  you 
no  feehngs — no  fellow-feelings  ?  " 

"  I'll  split  your  skull  if  you  give  me  any  of  your 
chaff,"  retorted  the  costermonger,  savagely. 

"  No,  my  friend,"  said  Harry,  coolly ;  "no;  you'll 
excuse  my  contradicting  you — but  you  won't." 

"  I  won't !"  roared  the  other. 

"  You  must  get  up  much  earlier  in  the  morning  to  do 
it,  I  pledge   you  my   word.     And  now  listen  to   this 


S  RANTHORPE. 

simple  and  familiar  observation  I  have  to  make  :  if  you 
don't  cease  maltreating  that  miserable  animal,  I  shall 
iirst  give  you  a  drubbing  to  gratify  my  ov/n  feelings,  and 
then  pull  you  up  before  a  magistrate  to  gratify  Mr. 
Martin's  feelings." 

At  the  word  "drubbing"  his  antagonist  threw  down 
his  stick  and  hat,  and  putting  himself  into  a  posture  of 
defense,  exclaimed,  "  Come  on,  come  on ;  I'll  give  it 
yer." 

Oliver  endeavored  to  persuade  Harry  to  decamp ; 
but  Harry  took  off  his  gloves  with  extreme  coolness, 
folded  them  up,  put  them  in  his  pocket,  and  then,  with- 
out heeding  the  remonstrances  of  his  companion,  quickly 
knocked  the  costermonger  down.  A  yell  of  derision 
and  delight  burst  from  the  crowd  as  they  saw  the  brute 
in  the  mud.  They  had  been  a  little  anxious  before ; 
but  the  coolness,  science,  and  force  Harry  exhibited, 
soon  quieted  their  fears;  and  the  pleasure  which  all  men 
feel  in  an  exhibition  of  prow^ess  was  here  heightened  by 
the  indignation  excited  by  the  costermonger's  brutality. 

Maddened  by  his  fall  and  by  the  derision  of  the 
crowd,  the  ruffian  started  to  his  feet  and  rushed  impetu- 
ously upon  Harry,  w^ho,  stepping  a  little  aside,  to  avoid 
the  shock,  dealt  him  so  heavy  a  blow  that  he  reeled  and 
fell  sprawling  in  the  mud.  He  got  up  again ;  but  he 
was  disheartened  ;  he  felt  that  he  had  no  chance  against 
the  skill,  coolness,  and  strength  of  his  antagonist.  In- 
stead of  renewing  the  attack,  he  skulked  away  to  his 
cart,  put  on  his  hat  amidst  the  laughter  and  gibes  of 
the  crowds  which  was  now  large,  and  taking  hold  of  the 
donkey's  bridle,  moved  on  in  sullen  silence. 

Harry  took  out  his  gloves,  put  them  on  as  if  nothing 
had  happened,  and  looked  round  for  Oliver,  who  had 


THE    THREE    STUDENTS.  9 

slunk  off  on  the  first  appearance  of  a  danger  in  which 
he  might  possibly  be  implicated.  Several  people  con- 
gratulated Harry,  and  praised  him  for  liis  generosity 
and  prowess. 

Percy  felt  as  if  he  could  have  asked  his  pardon  for 
the  contempt  which  a  little  while  ago  he  had  felt  for  him. 
But  the  crowd  had  dispersed,  and  he  was  alone. 

He  continued  his  walk  home,  now  ruminating  on 
the  scene  which  had  greatly  affected  him,  and  now 
peeping  into  his  volume  of  Shelley,  which  he  hugged 
as  only  a  poor  poet  could  have  hugged  it.  Under  more 
than  one  lamp-post  did  he  stop  to  catch  a  glimpse  at 
the  poems,  gathering  in  those  glimpses  fresh  impatience 
for  the  whole. 

"  What,  more  books !  "  reproachfully  exclaimed  his 
father,  as  he  entered  the  room.  "  What  can  he  do  with 
them  all,  I  can't  think."  This  was  said  to  a  young  girl 
who  was  at  that  moment  preparing  Percy's  supper. 

Percy  was  silent.  He  had  been  so  long  accustomed 
to  the  sneers,  aiici  .reproaches  of  iiis.  father  on  the  point, 
that  though  he  had  not  ceased  to  feel  them,  he  had 
quite  ceased  defending  himself 

"  I  suppose,"  continued  Mr.  Ranthorpe,  "  you  have 
gone  without  dinner  again  to-day,  to  buy  that  trash." 

"  I  dined  frugally,  and  bought  this  book  with  the 
money  saved." 

"  Well,  if  you  like  to  starve  yourself,  for  the  sake  of 
the  books,  that's  your  affair,  not  mine,"  rejoined  Mr. 
Ranthorpe.  With  this  observation — his  unfailing  one — 
he  let  the  matter  drop.  Percy  exchanged  a  glance  with 
the  lovely  girl  before  named,  and  in  her  approving, 
tender  look,  read  a  recompense.  If  she  thought  well  of 
what  he  did,  he  was  satisfied. 


lO  RANTHORPE. 

And  who  was  she  ?  asks  the  reader.  How  came 
she  there  ?  If  he  has  any  sagacity  he  will  at  once 
divine  that  she  is  to  play  an  important  part  in  this 
drama.  She  is  indeed  our  heroine,  and  must  have  a 
chapter  to  herself. 


CHAPTER    n. 

ISOLA. 

S'  ella  ride  ella  piace ;  s'  ella  parla  la  diletta ;  s'  ella  tace  ell' 
empie  altrui  d'ammirazione ;  s'  ella  va  ha  grazia ;  s'  ella  siede  ha 
vaghezza;  s' ella  canta  ha  dolcezza ;  s' ella  balla  ha  Venere  in  com- 
pagnia;  s' ella  ragiona,  le  Muse  le  insegnano. 

FiRENZUOLA  :  Delia  Belezza  delle  Donne. 

IsoLA  Churchill  was  an  orphan.  Her  father  had 
been  Mr.  Ranthorpe's  partner  and  friend  for  many 
years,  and  when  he  died  Mr,  Ranthorpe  took  her  to 
live  with  him,  as  a  child. 

She  was  exquisitely  beautiful.  But  her  beauty  was 
of  that  chaste  severity  of  style  which  only  strikes  con- 
noisseurs. She  had  few  of  the  charms  which  captivate 
drawing-room  critics;  was  neither  sylph-like  nor  sportive, 
neither  sentimental  nor  voluptuous.  Her  cheeks  were 
innocent  both  of  roses  and  lilies.  I  am  not  aware  of 
any  cupids  having  taken  up  their  abode  in  her  dimples; 
nor  did  I  ever  hear  any  thing  of  the  "  liquid  languish- 
ment "  of  her  eyes.  In  fact,  she  was  a  girl  whom  seven 
out  of  every  ten  would  call  "nice-looking,"  or  "well 
grown ;"  without  a  suspicion  of  the  other  three  looking 
upon  her  as  a  masterpiece  of  nature's  cunning  hand. 

Tall,  finely,  somewhat  amply  moulded,  with  a  waist 


ISOLA.  II 

in  perfect  proportion,  her  walk  was  the  walk  of  a  god- 
dess; perhaps  for  that  reason  few  thought  it  graceful. 

From  her  mother — an  Italian — she  inherited  a  pale, 
olive  complexion,  large  lustrous  eyes,  black  hair,  and  a 
certain  look  of  Raffaele's  Sistine  Madonna.  From  her 
father,  the  winning  gentleness  which  softened  her  some- 
what stem  severity  of  outline,  and  converted  the  statue 
into  a  woman.  Yet,  on  the  whole,  her  beauty  was  more 
sculpturesque  than  picturesque. 

Her  voice  was  peculiar.  Though  musical  and 
vibrating,  it  had  that  loudness  common  to  Italians,  but 
which  in  England,  amongst  a  race  accustomed  to  eat 
half  their  words,  is  regarded  as  ill-bred.  But  the  clear, 
vibrating,  powerful  tone  of  Isola's  voice,  always  seemed 
to  me  a  witchery  the  more,  and  was  not  inaptly  charac- 
teristic of  her  frank,  large,  and  healthy  soul.  It  gave 
some  persons  the  impression  of  her  not  being  feminine ; 
and  this  impression  was  strengthened  by  the  simplicity 
of  a  manner,  free  from  all  the  permissible  coquetry  of 
woman.  Yet  Isola  was  exquisitely  feminine  in  soul. 
She  was  woman  in  her  gentleness,  lovingness,  singleness 
of  purpose,  and  endurance;  only  not  m  coquetry. 

To  those  whose  tastes  had  been  kept  pure,  who 
could  distinguish  truth  and  love  it,  there  was  an  inde- 
finable charm  in  her  manner.  It  would  have  been  im- 
possible for  the  most  impertinent  of  men  to  have  paid 
her  common-place  compliments  :  the  quiet  simplicity — 
the  grandeur  of  her  direct  and  truthful  bearing — pro- 
tected her. 

If  the  reader  run  away  with  the  idea  that  Isola  was 
an  imposing  woman,  he  will  be  curiously  misled.  It  is 
the  fault  of  language  that  it  cannot  convey  manner,  so 
that  the  term  "  grandeur  "  applied  to  one  so  simple  and 


12  RANTHORPE. 

truthful  as  Isola,  may  seem  ill-applied;  because  it  is 
forgotten  that  all  grandeur  is  excessively  simple. 

Her  character  will  be  seen  in  this  story.  Her  ac- 
complishments were  not  inconsiderable,  since  music  and 
painting  were  her  birthright,  and  Dante  was  as  much 
her  childhood's  companion  as  Shakspeare. 

Percy  and  Isola,  living  under  the  same  root,,  very 
naturally  fell  in  love.  Ignorant  of  the  world,  but  look- 
ing forward  to  the  future,  confident  that  it  would  bring 
them  the  consummation  of  their  desires,  they  plighted 
their  vows.  Nor  did  Mr.  Ranthorpe  disapprove  of  it. 
This  seemed  to  him  the  best  way  of  securing  Isola  a 
protector  should  he  be  suddenly  cut  off;  and  he  felt 
Percy  would,  above  all  men,  need  a  good,  economical, 
sensible  woman  for  a  wife,  whenever  he  should  be  old 
enough  and  rich  enough  to  think  of  one. 

Mr.  Ranthorpe  had  a  very  special  contempt  for 
poets,  and  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  expressing  it 
before  his  son.  He  himself  had  been  all  his  life  a 
speculator;  and  because  he  had  pursued  the  chimera 
of  making  his  fortune,  he  considered  himself  eminently 
2.  practical  x\\?c!\.  A  life  of  unsuccess  had  failed  to  teach 
him.  He  had  no  faith  in  any  thing  that  was  not  prac- 
tical, that  did  not  obviously  lead  to  hard  cash.  His 
son's  poetical  tendencies  were  therefore  regarded  as 
alarming  symptoms.  The  old  man  was,  however,  some- 
what calmed  wlien  he  saw  Percy  accept  the  miserable 
situation  of  lawyer's  clerk,  and  attend  regularly  enough 
to  busmess,  in  spite  of  his  devoting  leisure  hours  to 
books  and  poetry. 

It  his  father  did  not  understand  and  sympathize  with 
him,  Isola  did.  She  was  the  confidante  of  all  his  plans; 
sympathized  in  all  his  aspirations ;  shared  all  his  hopes. 


ISOLA.  13 

She  believed  with  him  that  the  volume  of  "  Poems  of 
the  AlTections  "  which  he  was  preparing,  would  create 
for  him  a  rank  in  the  world  of  letters,  which  to  them 
would  be  a  fortune. 

It  is  necessary  that  the  reader  sliould  clearly  under- 
stand the  position  of  our  hero,  which  I  have  briefly  in- 
dicated in  the  foregoing  pages.  It  is  necessary  that  he 
should  see  the  poverty  and  ambition,  the  obstacles  and 
the  courage,  to  understand  the  struggles  which  are 
about  to  ensue.  Few  men  have  been  more  unfavorably 
placed  than  this  young  lawyer's  clerk;  none  have  ever 
had  a  more  stirring  ambition.  He  had  but  one  friend — 
but  one  partner  in  his  hopes.  The  rest  of  the  world 
wwe  all  superbly  indifferent  to  him  and  his  aspirations; 
e>:(.ept  his  fatlier,  who  was  indignant  at  them. 

Few  sights  are  more  saddening  than  that  of  a  young 
spirit  struggling  in  vain  against  overwhelming  obstacles; 
unlieeded,  unassisted,  without  friends,  without  position, 
and  without  advisers.  But  this  sight,  though  sad  to  the 
casual  spectator,  has  another  aspect  to  him  who  looks 
dee])er.  Underneath  those  thwarted  hopes,  that  wild 
ambition,  there  breathes  a  free  spirit  of  energetic  action; 
and  this  activity  is  a  fountain  of  delight,  as  activity  al- 
ways is.  We  who  see  the  struggling  boy,  and  calmly 
measure  the  immensity  of  the  barriers  which  shut  him 
from  success,  we  may  deem  him  unhappy,  because  we 
foresee  that  he  will  be  so.  But  we  do  not  feel  the  rap- 
ture of  his  reveries — the  delight  in  creation — the  trans- 
ports of  anticipated  success — transports  more  vividly 
felt  at  that  period  when  criticism  has  not  detected 
weakness,  when  experience  has  not  chilled  flushed  con- 
fidence with  its  cold  misgivings. 

The  poet's  desire  is  to  ''  get  published :''  in  that  an- 


14  RANTHORPE. 

ticipation  lies  his  delight.  He  is  tlie  lover  who  is  still 
enamored,  because  still  unmarried.  He  has  the  world 
lying  before  him;  and  it  is  plastic  to  his  hopes:  he 
moulds  it  as  he  wills.  After  publication  (that  marriage 
with  the  muse !)  he  can  no  longer  dream :  he  must  con- 
front reality.  The  world,  before  so  plastic,  is  now  a 
rock  whereon  are  wrecked  his  cherished  fancies.  The 
unpublished  poet  mistakes  his  aspiration  for  inspiration. 
He  confounds  the  excitement  awakened  in  him  by  great 
works,  with  the  excitement  awakened  by  self-developed 
ideas  and  self-experienced  feelings,  which  imperiously 
demand  utterance.  He  lives  in  the  circle  traced  by  his 
own  delusions. 

Perhaps  there  has  been  no  author,  whatever  may 
have  been  his  renown,  who  has  looked  back  upon  the 
early  years  of  uncrowned  endeavor  without  envying 
their  freshness  of  spirit,  virginity  of  soul,  and  boundless- 
ness of  hope.  Of  the  two  points  in  the  adventure  of  a 
diver, 

One — when  a  beggar  he  prepares  to  plunge; 
One — when  a  prince  he  rises  %\ath  the  pearl.* 

the  first  is  the  happier:  the  confidence  of  the  beggar 
exceeds  in  rapture  all  the  triumph  of  the  prince.  The 
pearl  is  beggary  beside  the  boundless  wealth  of  imag- 
ination. 

Percy  Ranthorpe  was  a  beggar,  and  about  to 
plunge ! 


Paracelsus. 


EARLY    STRUGGLES.  1 5 


CHAPTER    III. 

EARLY    STRUGGLES. 


{ai  su,  pauvre  et  content,  savourer  a  longs  traits 
es  muses,  les  plaisirs,  et  I'dtude,  et  la  paix. 
Une  pauvretd  libre  est  un  tresor  si  doux  ! 
II  est  si  doux,  si  beau,  de  s'etre  fait  soi-meme; 
De  devoir  tout  k  soi,  aux  beaux  arts  qu'on  aime. 

Andre  Chenier. 

The  "  Poems  of  the  Affections"  were  completed. 
Having  copied  them  out,  Percy  sent  them  to  Mr. 
Wilson,  the  publisher,  with  a  note  requesting  him  to 
read  them,  and  see  if  he  had  any  objection  to  publish 
them ;  Percy  announced  his  intention  of  calling  in  three 
days'  time. 

He  did  so.  He  dressed  himself  in  his  best  clothes, 
and  set  off  flushed  with  triumph.  It  was  with  peculiai, 
almost  awful,  sensations  that  he  entered  the  shop,  and 
inquired  for  Mr.  Wilson.  The  three  clerks  took  no  sort 
of  notice  of  him.  One  was  eating  his  luncheon.  A 
second  nibbing  his  pen.  The  third  tying  up  a  parcel 
of  books. 

"Is  Mr.  Wilson  within?"  repeated  Percy. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  him?"  asked  the  clerk  with 
his  mouth  full. 

"Yes." 

"He's  very  much  engaged." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  take  in  my  name.  Mr.  Ran- 
thorpe." 

"Jim,  take  in  the  gentleman's  name,  will  you?" 

The  clerk,  nibbing  his   pen  very   leisurely,   laid  it 


1 6  RANTHORPE. 

down,  got  off  his  stool,  gave  the  fire  a  poke,  and  saun- 
tered into  an  inner  room,  from  whence  he  shortly  pro- 
ceeded with  far  greater  alacrity,  and  politely  requested 
Percy  to  step  in. 

I  quite  relinquish  the  attempt  of  depicting  the  poet's 
sensations  as  he  entered  the  dusky  room,  where  sat  the 
awful  Mr.  Wilson,  upon  whose  decision  his  fate  seemed 
to  hang.    Mr.  Wilson  motioned  him  to  a  chair  and  said : 

"I  have  read  your  poems,  Mr.  Ranthorpe;  and 
very  pretty  they  are;  very." 

There  was  a  ringing  in  Percy's  ears;  his  face  was 
crimson;  he  was  speechless. 

"They  will  make  an  elegant  little  volume,"  con- 
tinued the  publisher;  "I  presume  you  would  wish  it 
handsomely  got  up  ?" 

"Why  yes — that  is  —  of  course  —  I  leave  that  to 
you." 

"Very  good.  I  will  get  it  up  for  you  as  moderately 
as  I  can,  and  as  well." 

Percy  did  not  comprehend  this.  The  publisher 
thought  he  was  simply  requested  to  publish  the  poems 
at  the  author's  expense.  Judge,  then,  of  his  surprise 
when  asked  by  Percy  timidly : 

"What  do  you  think  you  can  give  for  the  copy- 
right?" 

"Copy — ?  My  dear  sir.  There's  some  mistake. 
Do  you  not  wish  me  to  publish  your  poems  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"At  your  expense — " 

"At  my  expense!  Oh  no!  I  thought,  as  you  ad- 
mired the  poems,  you  would  purchase  them." 

"Ah,  my  dear  sir,  you  are  young  yet,  or  you  would 
know  that  we  never  purchase  such  things." 


EARLY    STRUGGLES.  t'J 

"  But  if  you  admire  them  ?" 

"The  pubhc  won't  buy  them.  Poetry,  sir,  is  a 
drug;  a  drug,  sir.  I  couldn't  sell  '  Childe  Harold'  if  it 
were  now  first  pubHshed." 

"Will  you  publish  the  poems  at  your  risk?"  asked 
Percy  in  desperation. 

"  It  is  a  thing  we  never  do,  I  assure  you ;  never- 
never.  In  fact,  we  consider  it  a  compliment  when  we 
consent  to  publish  y^r  an  author." 

Some  feeble  skirmishing  was  kept  up;  but  Percy, 
seeing  Mr.  Wilson  was  pitiless,  took  back  his  manu- 
script and  left  the  shop,  gloomy  and  sick  at  heart. 

"Some  other  publisher  may  be  glad  of  them,"  he 
said,  at  last;  and  this  revived  his  hopes. 

But  another,  and  another,  and  another  followed, 
with  unhesitating  unanimity  declining  tlie  honorable  risk. 

The  self-love  of  the  poet  was  exasperated.  He  felt 
towards  the  ])ublishers  a  feeling  of  bitterness  allied  to 
hatred.  Life  was  spoiled  for  him;  and  by  them.  A 
barrier,  insurmountable,  seemed  to  rise  between  him 
and  success. 

"  I  shall  die  unknown,  Isola,"  he  said.  "  I  shall 
die  unrecorded  and  unread.  Oh  !  if  the  poems  cou/c/ 
but  appear,  they  would  be  sure  to  succeed;  I  know  it; 
feel  it.  ,  But  these  ignorant  booksellers,  thinking  only  of 
l^ounds,  shillings  and  pence,  know  nothing  of  poetry, 
and  care  nothing  about  it." 

"  But,  darling,  you  must  not  blame  them  :  pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence  are  their  objects:  they  are  trades- 
men, not  critics." 

"Yes^  tradesmen,''  retorted  Percy,  with  bitter  con- 
tempt. "And  by  what  privilege  do  they  trade  in 
poetry  ?     Oh  !  that  I  were  any  thing  but  a  clerk !" 


1 8  RANTHOKPK. 

It  was  tlicn,  for  the  first  time,  he  felt  that  he  was 
nothing.  What  thoughts  then  oppressed  him !  What 
sad  despondency  nourished  in  a  soul  hitherto  so  buoy- 
ant and  so  hopeful!  What  cries  of  anguish  at  his 
social  position  ! 

"  Genius,"  said  Isola  to  him  one  day,  "has  alwa)s 
to  struggle ;  but  it  always  vanquishes  at  last." 

"If  it  have  courage,  Isola;  perhaps  so." 

"It  is  not  genius  if  it  have  not.  Therefore,  Percy, 
let  us  hope  on." 

She  rested  his  aching  head  upon  her  bosom,  and 
kissed  his  hot  brow.  He  looked  into  her  calm  lustrous 
eyes,  and  in  the  unutterable  love  there  he  read  courage 
to  endure.  He  felt  he  was  not  alone  in  the  world.  If 
all  else  were  denied  him,  she  was  with  him  ;  and  her 
love  made  life  a  paradise. 

With  somewhat  of  the  pride  of  a  martyr,  Percy  con- 
sented to  accept  his  obscurity  for  the  present.  Mean- 
while, his  studies  went  on.  He  had  resolved  to  fit 
himself  for  the  rude  battle  with  the  world. 

At  the  time  I  speak  of,  there  used  to  be  in  Holbom 
(and  there  may  be  still)  a  coffee-house,  at  which  the 
young  poet  spent  much  of  his  time.  It  was  an  uninvit- 
ing-looking place.  Two  kidneys  placed  upon  one  plate, 
and  one  solitary  fly-blown  chop  on  another  plate,  flank- 
ing a  tin  coftee-pot,  an'd  a  cup  inverted  in  its  saucer: 
such  was  the  symboUcal  appearance  presented  by  the 
window-ledge.  Over  these  was  placed  a  printed  bill  of 
fare;  concluding  with  this  announcement: — ''■  Daily 
and  Evening  Papers :  Revieius  and  Magazines T 

The  interior  did  not  belie  the  exterior.  The  long 
room,  with  two  rows  of  "  boxes"  looking  like  pews,  was 
lit  up  with  gas.     The  refreshments  were  cooked  at  one 


EARLY    STRUGGLES.  1 9 

corner,  behind  a  screen.  The  tables  were  strewed  with 
cups  of  tea  and  coffee,  broken  bread,  and  rashers  of 
bacon.  The  men  seated  at  the  tables  were  mostly  me- 
chanics, snatching  an  hour  from  toil,  and  in  all  their  dirt 
revelling  in  newspapers  and  magazines,  of  which  they 
were  eager  devourers;  and  some  "penny-a-liners"  and 
a  few  of  the  poorer  sort  of  clerks  were  also  there,  joking 
with  the  drab  who  waited  on  them — a  girl  all  dirt  and 
pertness,  well  used  to  the  easy  and  familiar  wit  of  the 
customers  who  called  her  "  Mary,  dear,"  or  '^  Jemima, 
love." 

Into  this  dismal,  but  not  uninteresting  place — for 
there  also  was  the  growing  avidity  of  the  people  for 
instruction  exemplified — Percy  was  attracted  by  the 
reviews  and  magazines ;  and  made  himself  acquainted 
with  the  ideas  the  age  was  putting  forth.  In  the  pe- 
rusal of  the  criticisms  on  contemporary  writers,  he  silently 
amassed  a  fund  of  critical  ideas,  which  he  endeavored 
to  apply  to  his  own  compositions.  One  day,  after  read- 
ing some  poems  in  "  Blackwood,"  it  struck  him  that 
here  was  an  opening. 

"  I  will  send  one  of  my  poems  to  '  Blackwood,' "  he 
said ;  "  the  editor  is  a  judge ;  he  won't  be  so  stupid  as 
the  booksellers.  If  he  prints  it,  I  will  send  him  others, 
and  thus,  in  time,  I  may  get  known." 

He  did  so.  The  editor  ivas  a  judge,  and  refused  it. 
Percy  was  angry,  but  sent  it  to  "  Frazer  "  wuth  the  same 
result.  His  poems  w^ent  the  round  of  the  magazines, 
but  appeared  nowhere. 

Did  he  despond  ?  Did  he  for  one  instant  suspect 
that  he  was  on  a  wrong  path  ?  that  nature  had  not  des- 
tined him  for  literary  success  ? — Not  in  the  least.  Noth- 
ing so  pliant  as  the  vanity  of  an  author;  no  rebuff  can 


2  0  RANTHORPE, 

break  it ;  it  will  bend,  and  bend,  and  bend,  but  will  not 
break.  Percy  consoled  himself,  and  Isola,  wnth  the 
idea  that  all  great  men  had  suffered  neglect.  It  \vas 
notorious  that  all  the  best  books  had  been  refused  by 
booksellers ;  all  the  best  poems  at  first  condemned  by 
critics.  The  conclusion  was  obviously  in  favor  of  the 
excellence  of  all  refused  works :  they  were  too  good  for 
the  age.  Percy  had  often  read  the  sad  tale  of  neg- 
lected genius.  He  was  neglected,  and  logic  abetted 
vanity  in  jumping  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  "  before 
his  age." 

This  is  a  common  delusion.  When  a  man  foils  in 
literature,  his  inordinate  vanity  makes  him  assume  that 
the  public  is  not  fitted  to  comprehend  his  works.  He 
is  before  his  age.  But  when  the  fact  of  failure  has  two 
explanations,  why  not  sometimes  suspect  the  second  to 
be  true  ?    AV'hy  not  assume  the  works  to  be  behind  the 

Men  treat  this  wondrous  age  of  ours  too  cavalierly. 
Depend  upon  it,  our  age  is  no  laggard :  it  advances 
with  giant  strides,  and  is  not  to  be  outstripped  by 
one  of  common  thews  and  sinews.  To  keep  up  to 
its  level  is  a  task  for  no  ordinary  powers.  To  rise 
above  it  is  the  rare  privilege  of  few.  Various  minds  are 
struggling  for  mastery,  and  seek  distinction  in  various 
ways.  There  are  some  men  who  swim  with  the  stream, 
and  some  who  swim  against  it :  men  with  their  age, 
^'in  the  foremost  files  of  time;"  and  men  behind  it. 
There  is  also  a  third  class.  There  are  men  beside  the 
age.  These  neither  swim  with  the  stream ;  they  have 
not  the  courage :  nor  against  it ;  they  have  not  the 
strength.  But  they  sit  moaning  at  the  river's  side,  call- 
ing upon  mankind  to  admii-e  how  exquisitely  t/iey  art 


EARLY    STRUGGLES.  2  1 

made  for  swimming.  The  busy  world  is  deaf;  the 
moaner  therefore  continues  unheeded,  except  by  a  few- 
idle  or  symi)athetic  souls  who  gather  round  him,  and 
admire  his  make.  These  at  length  urge  him  to  take  a 
plunge.  He  plunges:  one  splash,  and  he  rises  dizzy 
from  the  whirl  of  waters ;  sprawls,  and  flounders  till  he 
reaches  land,  and  then  meets  his  admirers  by  observing: 

"  Great  swimmers  are  never  in  their  element  in  river 
water,  they  want  the  roaring  waves  to  buffet  with."         j 

Percy  was  a  neglected  genius,  and  regarded  his  neg- 
lect as  a  token  of  his  superiority.  He  had  before  him 
al^out  this  time  an  example  which  went  very  far  towards 
turning  him  from  his  career.  He  had  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  a  brother  poet — a  Mr.  Wynton — another 
neglected  genius,  and  who  seemed  likely  to  remain  so, 
for  he  was  old  enough  to  be  Percy's  father.  He  was  a 
fine  creature ;  and  a  community  of  feeling  soon  estab-  *J**^ 
lished  a  degree  of  intimacy  between  them.  He  invited 
Percy  to  "look  in  upon  him"  some  day. 

It  was  a  bleak,  chill  afternoon,  as  Percy  was  return- 
ing home,  that  he  "looked  in  upon"  Wynton.  The 
room  into  which  he  was  shown  made  a  deep  impression 
on  him.  Its  poverty  was  hideously  distinct ;  small  and 
low,  it  had  no  carpet,  the  coals  were  contained  in  a 
kitchen  shovel  in  one  comer,  and  the  only  fire-iron  was 
a  poker  worn  to  a  mere  rod.  Cowering  over  a  miser- 
able fire  sat  Wyn ton's  wife,  a  woman  evidently  born 
and  bred  a  lady,  and  who  seemed  meekly  to  bear  her 
fate.  She  was  rocking  the  cradle,  wherein  squalled  a 
red  baby,  whose  frock  was  drying  by  the  fire,  the  back 
of  a  chair  officiating  as  a  clothes-horse.  Wynton  was 
worn  in  appearance,  but  his  manner  was  light  and 
buoyant.     His  eye  sparkled  with  pleasure  as  Percy  en- 


22  RANTHORPE. 

tered,  and  throwing  round  him  the  skirt  of  an  ancient 
dressing-gown,  which  he  did  with  an  air  as  if  it  had 
been  the  most  sumptuous  of  raiments,  said: 

"  This  is  a  comfortless  place  to  receive  you  in ;  but 
poverty  and  poets,  you  knoAv." 

This  was  said  with  a  touch  of  pride.  But  in  the  subse- 
quent conversation  which  took  place,  Wynton  spoke  too 
bitterly  of  the  deceptions  which  awaited  every  man  who 
trusted  to  literature,  for  Percy  not  to  see  that  however  he 
might  hug  his  poverty  in  certain  moments,  he  deeply 
regretted  it  at  others.  Percy  left  the  house  thoughtful 
and  sad.     He  determined  to  relinquish  literature. 

On  reaching  home,  the  bright  smile  of  Isola  flashed 
its  sunshine  across  his  gloom. 

''Have  you  seen  the  paper,  darling?"  she  asked 
eagerly, 

"  No." 

"  Then  come  in  !  good  news  !  look  here ! "  and  she 
held  out  the  paper  to  him,  pointing  to  an  advertisement 
of  one  of  the  magazines,  where,  amongst  various  con- 
tributions, he  read  this: — ''The  Poefs  Heart.  By 
Percy  Rayithorpey 

"The  poet's  heart"  at  that  moment  beat  violently. 
He  read  the  advertisement  again  and  again,  and  throw- 
ing down  the  paper,  clasped  Isola  to  his  arms  in 
transport.     His  father  entered. 

"  Look  here,  father,  look  here ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"What,  what?" 

"  See.     Read  that ;   I  am  on  the  w^ay  to  fame." 

And  with  supreme  triumph  he  pointed  out  the 
advertisement. 

"  Pooh,"  said  his  father,  affecting  indifference ;  but 
really   little    less    proud    than     his    son.      There    is    in 


KAKLV    STRUGGT.KS.  23 

ignorant  minds  a  curious  prestige  attached  to  print; 
when  they  see  a  name  in  a  newspaper  it  always  seems 
written  in  gold.  Old  Mr.  Ranthor[)e  thought  it  right 
not  to  show  his  pride,  but  he  ivas  j)roud. 

The  wise  resolution,  so  recentls^  formed,  Avas  utterly 
forgotten.  Such  is  the  poet's  nature  I  The  first  glimpse 
of  success  suffices  to  arouse  all  his  energies,  to  excite 
anew^  all  his  old  delusions,  to  restore  all  his  passionate 
aspirings.  He  may  be  baffled,  he  may  be  discouraged ; 
he  may  blaspheme  and  despair;  but,  in  the  storm  of  his 
despair,  a  breatli  \\'\\\  turn  him. 

The  magazine  came  out,  and  Percy  saw  himself  in 
print.  Those  who  have  once  experienced  this,  will  re- 
member their  delight  and  ]:)ride.  ^Months  succeeded, 
and  witli  eacli  succeeding  month  appeared  some  new- 
poem  by  the  intoxicated  Ranthor}>e.  And  yet  no  en- 
thusiastic public  had  crowned  the  poet  in  the  caj/itol ;  no 
coterie  swore  by  him;  no  op.e  wrote  for  autographs! 
But  the  poems  ai)]jeared :  that  satisfied  our  lovers. 
Hope  had  hung  u})on  a  slenderer  thread  for  it  not  to 
hang  on  this.  He  could  aft'ord  to  bide  his  time,  when 
every  month  brought  fresh  incense  to  his  vanity.  This 
incense  was  poison.  He  became  so  accustomed  to  re- 
gard the  j)ublication  oi  his  verses  as  success,  that  his 
( lerkship  became  more  and  more  intolerable  to  him. 
He  longed  to  set  himself  fairly  afloat  upon  the  wide 
sea  of  literature.  He  filled  so  much  space  in  the  world 
of  his  imagination,  that  he  could  not  help  believing  he 
must  be  important  in  the  world  of  reahty. 

Isola  endeavored  to  restrain  him.  She  pointed  out 
to  him  the  dangers — his  youth  and  inexperience,  and 
advised  him  to  be  patient.  He  was  silenced  but  not 
convinced. 


24  RANTHORPE. 


CHAPTER     IV. 

LE  PREMIER  PAS. 

He  whose  profession  is  the  Beautiful,  succeeds  only  through  the 
sympathies.  Charity  and  compassion  are  virtues  taught  with  difficulty 
to  ordinary  men  ;  to  true  genius  they  are  but  the  instincts  which  direct 
it  to  the  destiny  it  is  born  to  fulfil — viz.,  the  discovery  and  redemption 
of  new  traits  in  our  common  nature.  Genius — the  sublime  missionary 
— goes  forth  from  the  serene  intellect  of  the  author  to  live  in  the  wants, 
the  griefs,  and  the  inlirmities  of  others  in  order  that  it  may  learn  their 
language ;  and  as  its  highest  achievement  is  Pathos,  so  its  most  ab- 
solute requisite  is  Pity. 

Erne-st  Maltraveks. 

"  I  HAVE  brought  forward  all  the  arguments  I  can 
thmk  of,"  said  Percy,  one  day  to  his  father;  "I  am 
now  one-and-twenty,  and  must  ask  you  to  consider  my 
feehngs  in  the  matter." 

"  Your  fiddlesticks  ! "  contemptuously  retorted  Mr. 
Ranthorpe.  "  What  has  a  boy  of  your  age  to  do  with 
feelings  ?     Have  you  not  to  get  your  livelihood  ?" 

"  True ;  but  there  are  other  means  of  gaining  a  sub- 
sistence than  as  a  lawyer's  clerk." 

"  What,  literature,  I  suppose  ?"  asked  his  father, 
with  a  cold  sneer. 

"  Yes,  literature,"  proudly  replied  Percy. 

A  loud,  contemptuous  laugh  was  all  the  answer  his 
father  vouchsafed.     Percy  was  nettled. 

"  I  know  you  think  authors  are  a  despicable  race, 
living  in  garrets — " 

"  Sfan'ing  in  them,"  interru[)ted  his  father.  "  I  never 
said  living.     Mere  hirelings  of  booksellers  and  editors." 

Percy  continued,  without  noticing  the  interruption  : 

"  And  however  absurd  such  a  notion,  I  will  not  at- 


LE  prEiMif:r  pas.  25 

tempt  \o  argue  you  out  of  it.     But  I  have  resolved  to 
quit  my  office." 

"  Then  you  quit  my  house  at  the  same  time.  What ! 
am  I  to  see  you  throwing  up  a  certainty — a  HveUhood !" 

"  A  hvehhood !  you  do  not  imagine  that  my  salary 
of  tive-and-twenty  pounds  a  year  would  support  me." 

"  You  may  get  something  better." 

"  That  I  intend;  and  at  once." 

"  Very  well ;  only  don't  give  up  your  situation  till 
you  have  got  something  else." 

''  I  must  give  it  up  at  once." 

"  You  shan't  do  anything  of  the  kind,"  fiercely  ex- 
claimed his  father,  whose  irascible  nature  was  greatly 
excited  by  this  dialogue. 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  Because  I  don't  choose  it,  sir." 

"  Suppose  I  have  done  it  already." 

"  Suppose — you're  a  fool ! " 

"  Then  understand  me,  father,  I  have  done  if.'" 
^  "  You  have !"  exclaimed  his  father,  bounding  from 
his  chair,  ''  then  go  this  instant  and  undo  your  folly,  or 
you  shall  never  set  your  foot  within  my  doors  again." 

*'  1  would  rather  quit  the  house  than  stay  in  it  a 
clerk." 

A  heavy  blow  on  the  face  was  his  f^Ulier's  answer ! 

Stung  with  rage  at  the  indignity,  Percy  sprang  from 
the  chair,  hurried  to  his  own  room,  packed  up  his  few 
clothes,  and  left  the  house  in  silence.  ^S'hen  out  in  the 
open  street  he  wandered  for  some  time  unconscious  of 
everything  around  him.  Bitter  feelings  assailed  him ; 
]jut  his  haughty  and  imperious  nature  found  a  sort  of 
delight  in  the  frank  struggle  with  fate  and  circumstance 
which  now  awaited  him.     Resolved  to  owe  no  more  to 


26  RANTHORFE. 

his  father:  resolved  to  carve  his  own  path,  he  trusted 
in  the  strength  of  his  own  right  arm.  The  world  was 
before  him,  vast  as  his  desires,  and  he  was  free ! 

Free!  what  a  thrilling  sensation  is  that  when  the 
young  adA^enturer  first  (|uits  the  paternal  mansion  to 
carve  for  himself  a  pathway  in  the  world!  Hovv  strong 
the  sense  of  existence,  when  he  first  feels  independence ! 
Boyhood  retreats  into  the  past ;  manhood  begins.  The 
world's  burden  rests  upon  the  adventurer's  slioulders, 
and  rests  lightly,  supported  as  it  is  by  Hope. 

Inexperienced  as  Percy  was,  and  anxious  to  play 
some  part  in  the  world,  he  looked  upon  his  deliverance 
from  the  paternal  authority  as  a  blessing.  A  load  was 
rolled  from  his  heart.  He  began  to  scrutinize  his  posi- 
tion as  a  general  examines  the  plans  of  a  campaign. 
He  had  twelve  pounds,  ten  shillings — a  half  year's  salary 
— for  the  whole  of  his  fortune,  and  this  he  had  to  hus- 
band till  he  should  get  employment.  He  took  a  bed- 
room near  the  street  where  Wynton  lived.  For  this  he 
paid  five  shillings  a  week.  His  breakfast  would  cost 
him  twopence-halfpenny,  viz.,  a  penny  loaf  and  a  cup 
of  coffee ;  his  dinner,  two  penny  loaves  and  a  bit  of 
cheese  or  bacon,  would  cost  threepence  or  threepence- 
halfpenny  ;  his  tea  the  same  as  breakfast.  Thus  for 
eightpence  or  ninepence  a  day  he  could  exist. 

Having  made  these  calculations  and  set  apart  the 
money  in  small  parcels  for  each  week,  he  wrote  a  long- 
letter  to  Isola  full  of  regret  at  being  separated  from  her, 
but  instilling  into  her  his  own  confident  hopes  that  all 
was  for  the  best,  and  that  they  would  soon  be  united. 
He  asked  her  to  send  him  his  books,  and  appointed  a 
place  where  she  could  meet  him. 

"  My   dearest    Percy,"    she    said,    when    they    met, 


LE    PREMIER    PAS.  2 J 

"  there  is  no  chance  of  your  father's  relenting  unless 
you  apologize  to  him." 

''  Apologize  for  what  ?     For  his  having  struck  me  ?" 

"^Had  you  given  the  blow  he  could  not  be  more 
indignant,"  she  replied.  And  this  was  true.  Mr.  Ran- 
thorpe  quite  hated  his  son  at  that  moment ;  hated  him 
as  we  sometimes  hate  those  we  have  wronged. 

'^  Never  will  I  move  one  step,"  replied  Percy ; 
"  never  will  I  again  live  under  his  roof.  My  anger  is 
gone,  perhaps,  but  all  filial  respect  is  gone  with  it. 
Home  has  long  been  irksome  to  me,  now  it  would  be 
intolerable." 

"  What  will  you  do  ?" 

"  Work.  I  have  talents.  Hundreds  of  men  whom 
I  believe  to  have  less  than  I  are  earning  independence ; 
why  should  not  I  ?  Literature  I  was  destined  to.  I 
always  wished  to  try  my  venture  on  its  seas ;  now  I  am 
forced  upon  them." 

Thus  lightly  and  confidently  did  this  sanguine  boy 
cast  himself  upon  the  perilous  bosom  of  that  sea  where-   'X*^<' 
in  so  many  brave  hearts  have  been  shipwrecked.     It  ..       ^ 
was  a  fearful  step.      Hundreds  of  young  men  take  it        ^"'^t^ 
with  the  thoughtless  recklessness  of  youth.     They  con-  ,'        ^^ 
found  their  desire  for  distinction  with  the  power  of  dis-  ■«  ^,  ^ 

tinguishing  themselves.      Doubtless    the   temptation  is  '-'  ^ 

great.  "  Oh !  what  a  luxury  is  there  in  that  first  love  of 
the  Muse !  that  process  by  which  we  give  a  palpable 
form  to  the  long  intangible  visions  which  have  flitted 
across  us."*  The  delight  of  appearing  in  print,  of  being 
to  thousands  of  readers  that  near  and  cherished  friend 
which  a  favorite  author  is  to  us !  Is  not  that  tempta- 
tion enough  to  seduce  the  young  and  aspiring  into  an^ 

*  Ernest  Maltravers. 


28  RANTHURFK. 

peril  ?     Unhappily  none  know  the  danger  save  those 
who  have  escaped  it. 

An  author  !  'tis  a  venerable  name  ! 
How  few  deserve  it,  and  what  numbers  claim  ! 
Unblest  with  sense,  above  their  peers  refined 
Who  shall  stand  up,  dictators  of  mankind  ?* 

The  combat  commenced.  His  pinching  poverty 
was  endured  with  firmness,  if  not  indifference ;  but  his 
repeated  ill-success  in  the  efforts  he  made  to  get  em- 
ployment was  more  hard  to  bear.  He  wrote  tales  and 
sketches,  hoping  to  get  them  inserted  in  the  magazines. 
All  were  refused.  He  then  suspected  that  he  should 
be  forced  to  write  down  to  the  magazine  readers. 
Fatal  delusion,  which  has  misled  so  many!  He  tried 
what  he  called  the  "  popular  style ;"  but  as  writing 
badly  with  malice  prepense  never  yet  succeeded  with  any 
one,  so  did  it  in  nowise  profit  him.  His  popular  style 
was  as  mercilessly  rejected  as  his  ambitious  style. 

Many  a  long  night  did  he  sit  in  his  small  room  re- 
flecting on  his  position.  As  his  burning  head  rested 
upon  his  hand,  and  his  eyes  mechanically  wandered 
over  the  various  plans  and  manuscripts  strewed  before 
him,  he  sometimes  felt  a  sick  despair  growing  over  him. 
He  counted  his  finances,  and  was  shocked  to  find  them 
so  nearly  exhausted.  A  few  more  weeks,  and  beggary 
stared  him  in  the  face.  Want  had  been  his  familiar 
playfellow;  but  PI  ope  had  been  always  at  his  side 
pointing  to  the  sunny  future.  Now  hope  seemed  to 
vanish.  If  his  small  fund  were  to  be  exhausted  before, 
he  got  employment,  he  would  have  no  other  resource 
than  to  enlist  as  a  common  soldier.  What  a  prospect 
for  an  ambitious  youth ! 

*  Young. 


RANTHORPE    TIECOMES    A    JOURNALIST.  29 

His  prospects  sliortly  brightened  a  little.  Wynton 
had  got  an  engagement  on  a  weekly  newspaper  of  good 
repute,  and  hoped  to  be  able  to  introduce  Percy  to  the 
editor,  and  so  manage  to  find  a  place  for  him  also. 

The  sight  of  Wynton  installed  in  new  and  well-fur- 
nished lodgings,  with  all  the  necessaries  of  life  about 
him,  was  peculiarly  gratifying  to  Percy,  not  only 
because  he  rejoiced  in  his  friend's  fortune,  but  also 
because  the  change  in  that  friend's  fortune  looked  like 
a  harbinger  of  hope  to  him. 

There  remained  only  money  enough  for  three  weeks' 
penurious  existence,  when  a  note  came  inviting  him  to 
dinner  at  Mr.  Rixelton's,  the  editor  of  the  paper  on 
which  Wynton  was  engaged.  He  wrote  a  hurried 
hopeful  note  to  Isola  announcing  the  event,  and  set 
forth  with  a  lighter  heart  than  had  beat  in  his  breast 
for  many  months. 


CHAPTER    V. 

RANTHORPE    BECOMES    A    JOURNALIST. 

"■'  If  by  the  liberty  of  the  press  we  understand  merely  the  liberty  of 
discussing  public  measures  and  public  opinions,  let  us  have  as  much 
of  it  as  you  please;  but  if  it  means  the  liberty  of  affronting,  calumni- 
ating, and  defaming  another,  I,  for  my  part,  own  myself  willing  to 
part  with  my  share  of  it ;  and  shall  cheerfully  exchange  my  liberty  of 
abusing  others  for  the  privilege  of  not  being  abused  myself. 

Franklin. 

Je  critiquai  sans  esprit,  et  sans  choix 
Impunement  le  theatre,  la  chaire. 

Voltaire, 

The  dinner  was  copious;  the  conversation  noisy. 
If  authors,  as  a  race,  do  not  talk  well,  they  certainly 
talk  a  great  deal,  especially  when  together. 


30  RANTHORPE. 

Ranthorpe  at  first  was  silent;  awed  by  finding  him- 
self amongst  acknowledged  writers ;  men  who  treated 
articles  and  books  as  matters  of  course!  But  his 
natural  vanity  soon  loosened  his  tongue.  He  wished 
to  shine,  and  he  shone.  With  the  guests  he  Avas  in 
ecstacies. 

In  the  life  of  an  author,  there  are  few  events  more 
highly  prized  than  making  the  acquaintance  of  literary 
men  who  have  attained  some  success.  People  talk  of 
the  envy  and  jealousy  of  authors;  but  it  is  a  vulgar 
error.  I  firmly  believe  that  no  author,  unless  a  man  of 
the  meanest  and  most  envious  disposition,  ever  envied 
the  success  of  another.  Authors  are  an  imaginative 
and  sympathetic  race.  They  gladly  associate  with  each 
other.  They  take  keen  interest  in  each  other's  projects. 
And  to  an  obscure  author,  the  acquaintance  of  one  ac- 
knowledged by  the  world  is  always  peculiarly  fascinat- 
ing; Ranthorpe  was  fascinated. 

Of  the  assembled  guests  I  may  introduce  the  reader 
to  Mr.  Joyce,  a  middle-aged  Scotchman,  whom  every 
body  declared  to  be  "  a  regular  trump."  Of  Scotch- 
men this  much  may  be  said :  let  the  national  character 
be  what  it  may,  whenever  the  individuals  free  them- 
selves from  its  prejudices  they  are  glorious  fellows. 
When  a  Scotchman  is  a  "  trump,"  he  is  always  an  Ace 
of  trumps.  Joyce  was  an  Ace.  His  large,  round, 
good-humored  face  beaming  with  intelligence,  was  the 
index  of  a  large,  wise  soul.  His  presence  was  sunshine 
in  a  room.  He  was  friendly  with  all  men,  whatever 
their  tempers  or  opinions.  No  one  ever  quarrelled  with 
him ;  every  body  asked  his  advice,  and  what  is  more, 
took  it.  He  knew  a  little  of  everything,  and  a  great 
deal  of  a  great  many  things.     He  had  learning,  taste, 


RANTHORPE    BECOMES    A    JOURNALIST.  3 1 

and  supreme  good  sense.  He  had  written  one  of  the 
most  popular  books  of  our  day,  and  had  never  put  his 
name  to  it,  although  the  world  attributed  it  to  another. 
He  could  argue  with  men,  and  gossip  agreeably  with 
women.  He  was  consideral^ly  pestered  by  country 
cousins,  who  absorbed  a  great  deal  of  his  time,  but  he 
bore  with  them  with  amazing  equanimity.  Ranthorpe 
instinctively  took  to  him ;  and  they  afterwards  became 
intimate  friends. 

Opposite  Joyce  sat  Wynton,  and  by  his  side  sat 
Pungent,  the  editor  of  the  "  Exterminator."  Pungent 
was  a  small,  thin,  sleek-looking  man  of  about  forty. 
Pie  was  always  dressed  like  a  clergyman ;  having  the 
two-fold  ambition  of  being  taken  for  a  wit,  and  mistaken 
for  a  clergyman,  The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith  was  his  ideal. 
Though  overflowing  with  kindness,  he  unfortunately 
mistook  asperity  for  wit;  so  that  in  all  London  you 
could  not  find  a  kinder  man,  nor  a  crueller  critic.  The 
early  pranks  of  the  ''  Edinburgh  Review  "  had  turned 
his  head.  In  their  lively  ridicule  he  saw  the  perfection 
of  criticism;  and  he  imitated  it,  unconsciously  omitting 
the  liveliness.  This  sleek,  kind,  cruel  man  uttered 
sarcasms  with  a  breath  of  tenderness ;  he  wounded  your 
self-love  with  unspeakable  suavity.  Ask  any  thing  of 
him  but  his  good  word,  and  you  were  certain  to  ob- 
tain it. 

Opposite  Pungent  sat  Bourne,  a  pale,  melancholy- 
looking  man,  doing  his  best  to  appear  romantic,  who 
having  failed  to  make  any  figure  in  Parliament,  had 
thrown  himself  upon  literature  for  distinction.  He  was 
a  man  of  independent  property,  and  could  afllbrd  the 
expensive  luxury  of  literature :  printing  his  own  works, 
and  being  his  own  purchaser.     His  great  ambition  was 


32  RANTHORPE. 

that  of  a  dramatic  poet;  he  had  printed  several  tragedies 
and  one  "  ideal  comedy."  He  had  been  enthusiastically 
praised  by  his  friends;  yet  in  spite  of  the  eulogies 
showered  on  the  second  Shakspeare,  neither  managers 
nor  public  could  be  induced  to  look  at  his  plays. 

"  Does  any  one  know  how  the  new  })lay  went  off  on 
Thursday,"  asked  Joyce. 

"What!  haven't  you  seen  the  'Exterminator?'" 
asked  Pungent. 

''  No." 

"  No ;  then  do  so ;  you  know  I  am  devoted  to  the 
drama,  pen  and  pencil-case."  Then,  in  his  blandest 
tone,  Pungent  added :  "  I  think  I  have  settled  the 
author." 

"  Quite  right ! "  said  Bourne,  vehemently ;  "  such 
trash  !  but  it's  just  like  the  managers  to  bring  out  this 
stuff.  What  annoyed  me  was  to  see  a  parcel  of  stupid 
fellows — friends  of  the  author — who  went  purposely  to 
^applaud.     For  my  part  I  went  to  hiss;  and  hiss  I  did."' 

"  That  was  kind,"  quietly  suggested  Rixelton. 

"  It  was  conscientious.  I  foresaw  what  it  would  be; 
else  how  could  a  manager  have  been  induced  to  pro- 
duce it  ?  Managers  have  an  abstract  horror  of  good 
plays;  their  ignoble  souls  delight  only  in  trash." 

"  How  can  that  be  ?"  askeii  Joyce. 

'■'■  Hoiv  it  can  be  I  don't  know;  but  \\.  is.  How- 
ever, there  is  always  consolation  in  a  play  d — d.  Every 
failure  is  a  lesson.  Managers,  on  the  verge  of  ruin,  will 
be  forced  to  produce  good  ])ieces;  forced  to  bend  an 
unwilling  knee  to  genius.  /  bide  my  time.  The  Ideal 
must  be  recognized  at  last." 

'•'  My  good  fellow,"  said  Joyce,  smiling,  •'  do  you 
really  think  the  public  cares  about  the  Ideal  ?     It  is 


RANTHORPE    BECOMES    A    JOURNALIST.  2;^ 

not  the  want  of  our  age.  The  Ideal  is  only  fitted  for 
ages  of  faith,  and  ours  is  an  age  of  scepticism." 

"  Oh,  surely  not,"  interposed  Ranthorpe. 

"  Well,  then,  of  prosaism.  People  now  care  for 
Use,  not  Beauty.  It  was  once  otherwise.  The  Greeks, 
with  all  their  splendid  architecture,  never  had  a  bridge. 
The  Italians,  who  worshipped  the  delicate  genius  of 
Benvenuto  Cellini,  could  not  boast  of  a  lock.  We  have 
superb  bpdges  and  locks,  but  we  have  lost  the  sense  of 
beauty.  Out  of  Leda's  egg  our  age  would  make — a 
custard."  j 

"  Joyce  is  quite  right,"  said  Pungent.  "  Poetry,  as 
we  are  repeatedly  told,  is  a  drug." 

"  Yes,  driig-^o^Xxy^'  retorted  Ranthorpe.  "  But  in 
spite  of  what  we  are  perpetually  told,  our  daily  ex- 
perience contradicts  it.  Poetry  can  never  die;  never 
become  a  drug.  It  is  the  incarnation  of  our  dearest 
hopes,  the  utterance  of  our  most  passionate  aspirings. 
When  we  have  ceased  to  hope  and  ceased  to  feel,  poetry 
will  die,  and  not  till  then." 

"  I  attribute  the  present  neglect  of  poetry,"  said 
Pungent,  "  to  the  indifference  of  critics,  who,  allowing 
trash  to  pass  without  reprehension,  have  corrupted  the 
art.  In  your  paper,  Rixelton,  I  am  sorry  to  see  a  want 
of  sternness.  You  have  no  epigram — no  Attic  salt — 
believe  me  you  want  light  and  shade — a  due  blending 
of  blame  and  praise." 

"  That's  capital,"  rejoined  Rixelton,  "  when  you 
never  praise." 

"  It  gives  breadth  to  criticism." 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  the  real  truth  ?"  said  Rixelton. 
"  I  began  my  career  tolerably  reckless  of  the  self-love 
of  others.      I  scattered,  with   an  unthinking  hand,  no 

3 


34  RANTHORPE. 

small  quantity  of  the  Attic  salt,  you  mention,  into  the 
open  wounds  of  authors'  self-love.  I  wrote  a  book. 
Gentlemen,  I  then  felt  that  criticism  was  not  a  joke !  I 
was  '  cut  up.'  I  had  the  measure  meted  out  to  me 
that  I  had  meted  out  to  others.  I  was  humiliated — 
maddened  —  I,  who  had  humiliated  and  maddened 
others  for  so  long.  From  that  moment  I  was  a  changed 
man." 

''  But,"  objected  Pungent,  "  it  is  just  as  bad  praising 
a  book  which  does  not  deserve  it.  You  mislead  the 
pubhc  if  you  speak  of  a  work  as  if  its  few  merits  were 
samples  of  the  whole." 

"  And,"  rejoined  Rixelton,  '•  does  it  not  still  more 
grossly  mislead  the  pubHc  when  a  few  faults  are  dwelt 
on  as  if  f/iey  were  samples  of  the  whole  ?" 

"  Might  one  not  accomplish  the  real  object  of  criti- 
cism," asked  Ranthorpe,  "  by  never  blaming  without 
assigning  reasons,  and  never  praising  without  sincerity  ?" 

"  An  ideal  standard,"  said  Joyce,  "  and  not  easily 
reached." 

"  But  to  which  we  should  constantly  aspire,"  replied 
Ranthorpe. 

"You  will  never  convince  me,"  said  Bourne,  "that 
blame,  however  just  and  temperate,  will  not  exasperate 
an  author." 

"  The  surgeon  and  the  assassin  both  use  the  knife,'' 
said  Ranthorpe;  "the  one  with  kindness  and  science, 
the  other  with  wantonness  and  malice.  The  one  cuts 
that  he  may  cure,  the  other  that  he  may  kill." 

"  Mr.  Ranthorpe  is  right,"  said  Rixelton,  approv- 
ingly, "  and  although  perhaps  the  ])atient  might  wince 
under  the  operation,  he  would  nevertheless  regard  the 
operator  with  respect  and  gratitude." 


RANTHORPE    BECOMES    A    JOURNALIST.  35 

A  few  days  after  this  dinner,  Rixelton  who  was 
greatly  pleased  with  Ranthorpe,  offered  him  an  engage- 
ment, which  I  need  not  say  was  accepted  with  intense 
delight.  He  had  to  write  the  theatrical  critiques,  and 
occasionally  review  poems.  For  this  he  received  a 
guinea  a  week — to  him  a  fortune ! 

The  world  again  was  bright  to  him.  The  cherished 
ambition  of  his  life  was  once  more  possible.  Isoia 
smiled  at  his  enthusiasm,  and  half  shared  it.  But  life 
was  extremely  sad  now  that  Percy  no  longer  lived  under 
the  same  roof  with  her,  and  she  was  condemned  to  hear 
constant  reproaches  uttered  by  his  father  respecting  his 
unfeeling  conduct,  mixed  with  sombre  prophecies  of  his 
coming  to  some  dreadful  end. 

The  old  man  continued  obstinate.  He  would  not 
listen  to  Isola's  pleadings  in  his  son's  favor.  He  called 
him  an  ungrateful  wretch,  who  repaid  kindness  with 
insolence.  And  as  about  this  time  he  had  entered  upon 
a  speculation  which  promised  to  be  highly  lucrative,  he 
felt  a  savage  pleasure  in  contemplating  his  success,  and 
thinking  that  Percy  had  shut  himself  from  all  participa- 
tion in  it.  I  verily  beliexe  that,  much  as  he  loved 
money,  he  cared  more  for  the  success  of  this  new  spec- 
ulation from  the  triumph  it  would  give  him  over  his 
son  than  for  the  money  it  would  bring.  And  it  was 
with  real  pain  that  he  heard  of  Percy's  new  situation. 
This  escape  from  want  vexed  him.  He  had  gloated 
over  the  idea  of  his  son  reduced  to  absolute  want,  and 
forced  to  come  to  him  a  suppliant.  He  knew  that 
nothing  short  of  that  could  bend  him.  But  he  also 
knew  how  scanty  the  sum  of  money  he  had  in  his  pos- 
session, and  greatly  marvelled  at  its  not  having  long 
been  exhausted.     This  situation  on  a  newspaper,  there- 

3* 


36  •  RANTHORPE. 

fore,  which  Isola  told  him  of  with  pride,  thinking  that 
this  first  glimpse  of  success  might  soften  him,  was 
doubly  hateful.  Hateful,  because  it  was  a  refuge  for 
Percy,  and  prevented  the  necessity  of  his  yielding  ;  and 
hateful,  because  that  refuge  was  literature. 

Meanwhile,  Percy  was  supremely  happy.  Passion- 
ately fond  ol  the  drama,  he  undertook  the  task  of  criti- 
cism as  a  luxury.  He  scarcely  ever  missed  an  evening's 
performance.  Beyond  this,  conceive  the  pride  of 
^' being  on  the  press!"  His  pen  was  a  power;  at  least 
he  thought  so.  The  printing-office,  dirty,  murky,  and 
ill-ventilated,  was  a  sacred  spot  to  him.  He  rejoiced 
in  its  gaseous-heated  atmosphere ;  he  loved  the  smell  of 
the  ink  and  damp  paper.  In  a  word,  all  the  disagree- 
able things  connected  with  his  office  were  converted 
into  pleasures,  by  the  fact  of  their  relation  to  the  great 
profession  of  literature :  they  were  les  coulisses  of  the 
great  theatre  on  which  he  hoped  to  play  so  illustrious 
a  part 

Every  Sunday  morning  the  paper  lay  upon  his 
breakfast-table,  and  made  him  feel  that  he  was  *'  some- 
body," as  he  cut  the  leaves  and  eagerly  read  over  his 
own  contributions. 


THE    ORPHANS.  37 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    ORPHANS. 

Ah  !  I  remember  well  (how  can  I 

But  evermore  remember  well)  when  first  .,. 

Our  flame  began,  when  scarce  we  knew  not  'twas 

The  flame  we  felt ;  when  as  we  sat  and  sigh'd 

And  look'd  upon  each  other  and  conceived 

Not  what  we  ail'd, — yet  something  we  did  ail  ; 

And  yet  were  well,  and  yet  we  were  not  well. 

And  what  was  our  disease  we  could  not  tell. 

Samuel  Daniel.  Hymen  s  Triumph. 

Speed  was  in  my  footsteps  ; 

Hope  was  in  mine  eye  ; 
And  the  soul  of  poesy 

Was  my  dear  ally. 
Earth  was  then  as  beautiful, — 

As,  as  is  the  sky, 
When  I  look'd  beside  me 

And  saw — that/c>«  were  nigh. 

Barry  Cornwall. 

Percy  at  length  got  so  accustomed  to  all  the  work 
of  the  press,  that  it  became  a  "matter  of  course"  to  him, 
and  ceased  to  be  a  pleasure.  But  as  he  was  writing 
another  volume  of  poems,  he  was  glad  to  be  earning  a 
subsistence  until  they  should  give  him  celebrity. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  months  he  had  made  several 
literary  acquaintances,  and  had  gradually  been  initiated 
into  many  of  the  secrets  of  the  profession.  His  lust  for 
fame  continued  unabated.  He  had  before  him  many 
sad  warnings ;  but  he  pursued  the  course  of  his  ambi- 
tious dreams  undaunted. 

His  father  fell  dangerously  ill ;  but  refused  to  see 
him.  In  vain  Isola  begged  that  she  might  send  for 
him.     The   old    man    sternly   declared    he   should  not 


8  RANTHORPE. 


enter  the  house,  until  he  could  enter  it  having  renounced 
literature  forever.  Percy  was  grieved  at  his  father's  ob- 
stinacy, and  at  times  was  nearly  yielding.  But  he  cher- 
ished his  ambition  too  much ;  he  could  //<?/  renounce  it. 

Twice  or  thrice  a  day  he  called  to  ascertain  the 
state  of  his  father's  health,  which  was  gradually  becom- 
mg  worse.     One  day  Isola  said  to  him  : 

"  Percy,  you  know  how  your  father  has  resisted  all 
my  entreaties.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  his  obstinacy, 
he  loves  you,  and  would  gladly  see  you.  Come  with 
me." 

"He  will  refuse  to  see  me." 

"  Come  with  me  into  the  room.  Venture  it.  He 
will  not  have  the  heart  to  bid  you  quit  it." 

"  It  is  worth  risking,"  said  Percy. 

They  agreed  that  he  should  enter  the  room  quite  as 
a  matter  of  course,  and  take  no  notice  whatever  of  what 
had  occurred. 

"  How  are  you  now,  my  dear  father  ?  "  said  Percy, 
tenderly,  as  he  marched  resolutely  up  to  the  bedside, 
and  took  the  old  man's  hand. 

"  Better — better — my  dear  boy,"  said  the  old  man, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

Isola  was  right.  The  sight  of  his  boy  was  too  much 
for  his  anger ;  it  vanished  at  once.  There  is  a  chord 
in  a  parent's  heart  whicli  is  never  touched  in  vain. 
However  angry  we  may  justly  be  with  a  child — he  is 
still  our  child,  and  our  hearts  yearn  irresistibly  towards 
him. 

The  old  man  pressed  his  boy's  hand  in  silence; 
gazed  on  his  exquisitely  beautiful  face  with  all  a  father's 
fondness  and  admiration,  reading  in  its  lines  such  grace, 
beauty,  tenderness,  and  promise,  that  he  wondered  at 


THE    ORPHANS.  39 

himself  how  he  could  ever  have  felt  Qtherwise  than  he 
did  then.  Percy,  touched  at  his  manner,  was  about 
to  ask  forgiveness.  The  haughty  boy,  whom  no  harsh- 
ness could  have  moved,  Avas  melted  by  these  signs  of 
affection. 

"  Silence  on  that,"  replied  his  father,  mournfully, 
shaking  his  head  as  he  interrupted  him ;  "  let  by-gones 
be  by-gones.     I  am  not  long  for  this  world." 

"  Oh !  do  not  say  that." 

"  I  would  not  say  it,  did  I  not  feel  it.  But  it  is  too 
true.  I  have  not  long  to  live.  The  little  time  I  have 
yet  must  be  devoted  to  the  future,  not  the  past." 

They  prayed  together  fervently.  By  his  bedside 
sat  Percy  three  days  and  three  nights,  without  stirring. 
He  could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave  his  father,  w^hom 
he  felt  he  had  not  treated  with  the  consideration  which 
was  his  due.  He  slept  in  a  chair;  or,  while  he  watched 
the  troubled  slumbers  of  the  dying  man,  prayed  in 
silence  for  his  recovery. 

As  he  watched  thus  one  night,  he  was  starded  by 
the  expression  of  agony  and  the  heavy  breathing  of  the 
dying  man,  who  awoke  in  terror. 

The  old  man  sat  up  in  his  bed,  looked  wildly  at  his 
son,  then  gazing  abstractedly  at  the  shadows  moving 
on  the  wall,  as  the  night-lamp  flickered,  muttered — 

"  Thank  God  ! — only  a  dream — only  a  dream." 

He  then  sank  back  upon  his  pillow,  and  complained 
of  thirst.  Percy  brought  him  some  barley-water;  which, 
having  drunk,  the  old  man  said  slowly — 

"  My  dear  boy,  dreams  are  sometimes  warnings  from 
above." 

Percy  would  not  contradict  him. 

"  I  have  had  a  warning  about  you.   It  seemed  to  me. 


40  RANTHORPE. 

that — as  if — I  dreamed — "  His  voice  became  inaudible; 
a  sharp  pang  shot  through  him ;  he  closed  his  eyes  and 
was  silent. 

The  stillness  of  the  room — the  flickering  lamp — the 
heavy  breathing,  occasionally  swelling  into  moaning — 
the  distortion  of  the  features — fearfully  impressed  Per- 
cy's imagination,  weakened  as  he  was  by  continual 
watching  He  longed  to  hear  his  father's  dream.  Free 
from  all  superstition  as  he  was,  he  could  not  shake  oft 
an  indefinite  fear  and  anxiety  respecting  this  dream. 

At  length  the  old  man's  features  became  composed 
— he  sank  again  to  sleep.  From  this  sleep  he  never 
woke  but  once,  and  that  was  only  two  hours  afterwards. 

"  Percy — I'm  dying — promise  me — that — you — will 
— give  up  literature — my  dream — promise  me — literature 
— destruction — scaffold  ! " 

This  last  word  was  a  hissing  whisper;  and  with  it 
he  expired. 

Had  the  old  man  lived  one  minute  longer,  he  would 
have  extorted  the  promise  from  his  son ;  which  would 
have  been  religiously  kept.  Indeed,  so  impressed  was 
Percy  by  the  scene,  that  he  inwardly  resolved  to  obey 
his  father's  last  wish,  whatever  it  might  cost  him. 

But  resolutions  made  in  such  moments  are  seldom 
kept.  On  cooler  reflection,  he  began  to  see  that  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  give  up  his  career;  and  that  his 
father  only  desired  it  from  a  prejudice  and  unenlightened 
view  of  literature.  Yet  the  hissing  of  the  word  "  scaf- 
fold "  ever  and  anon  rung  ominously  in  his  ears ! 

Isola  and  Percy  both  grieved  deeply.  They  were 
now  orphans  in  the  world.  As  the  funeral  ceremony 
concluded  they  clung  to  each  other  in  a  wild  embrace, 
as  if  each  were  now  the  world  to  each. 


THE    ORPHANS.  4 1 

When  the  first  flow  of  grief  was  passed,  and  they 
began  to  look  around  them,  it  was  found  that,  when  all 
debts  were  paid,  Percy's  father  had  left  nearly  two 
hundred  pounds.  This  seemed  to  them  a  fortune ;  and 
when  Isola  communicated  her  intentions  of  earning  her 
own  livelihood,  as  companion  to  Lady  Theresa  Wil- 
mington, he  said : 

"  Dearest,  you  never  can  think  of  it.  Voi/,  too,  at 
the  beck  and  call  of  any  one.  No  !  Let  us  marry  at 
once.  We  have  money  to  furnish  a  house,  and  begin 
the  world  with;  and,  for  the  future,  I  am  easy  on  that 
score." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  replied  she,  ''  I  must  work  as  well  as 
you." 

•'  But  why  ?" 

"  Because  we  are  not  rich  enough  to  marry." 

"  Nonsense !     We  have  enough  to  start  with." 

"  Yes ;  but  we  cannot  live  upon  that.  Darling 
Percy,  you  have  your  name  yet  to  make  in  the  world. 
You  will  have  to  publish  '  The  Dreams  of  Youth  '  at 
your  own  expense.  When  once  that  work  is  fairly 
known,  I  am  sure  you  Avill  never  want  employment ;  but 
till  then  it  would  be  madness  in  us  to  marry." 

"  Do  you,  then,  fear  poverty  ?" 

"  That  is  unkind  in  you,  Percy.  You  know  I  should 
not  feel  poverty  with  you.  But  I  prefer  feehng  the 
humiliations  which  I  may  meet  with  as  a  companion,  to 
that  far  deeper  and  irremediable  humihation  of  being  a 
burden  upon  you.  Besides,  surely  we  are  young  enough 
to  wait." 

Poor  girl  !  how  little  she  suspected  that  one  day  her 
arguments  would  be  turned  against  Iier! 

Percy  was   annoyed   at  first;  but  he  soon  saw  that 


42  RANTHORPE. 

her  reasoning  was  just,  and  he  knew  her  heart  too  well 
to  suppose  that  her  fears  were  selfish.  He  himself, 
though  violent,  and  apt  to  be  roused  whenever  his 
wishes,  however  unreasonable,  were  in  the  least  opposed, 
was  generous  enough  to  comprehend  her  generosity. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  said  he,  the  next  day,  "  of 
your  going  to  Lady  Theresa's,  and  cannot  reconcile  my- 
self to  it.  So  I  have  a  proposition  to  make.  You  are 
some  day  to  be  my  wife,  are  you  not  ?" 

She  pressed  his  hand  as  her  only  answer. 

"  Very  well ;  then  of  course  you  consider  what  is 
mine  is  yours.  Now,  you  shall  not  go  to  Lady  Theresa; 
but  the  money  left  me  by  my  poor  father  I  hand  over 
to  you.  It  shall  be  your  support  until  I  can  get  regular 
employment  to  justify  our  marriage." 

"  Generous  creature,"  she  exclaimed,  kissing  him. 

"  You  accept  tlien  ?" 

"  Do  I  accept  ?  No,  Percy ;  but  it  is  not  pride 
which  makes  me  decline.  The  money  is  necessary  for 
your  advancement ;   I  will  not  touch  a  shilling  of  it." 

"  How,  necessary  ?  foolish  girl." 

"  First,  to  publish  your  poems." 

''  Well,  then,  I  will  deduct  the  sum  necessary  for 
that;  the  rest  shall  be  yours." 

"  It  will  not  prevent  my  going  to  Lady  Theresa's. 
Percy,  Percy,  what  extravagant  ideas  have  you  got  re- 
specting my  situation  ?  It  may  be  irksome,  but  it  has 
surely  nothing  degrading.  Besides,  I  repeat,  the  money 
is  necessary  for  your  pursuit.  You  must  leave  the 
paper,  and  devote  yourself  to  some  work — your  tragedy, 
for  instance.  This  you  cannot  do,  unless  you  have 
money  to  live  on.  In  two  or  three  years  you  will  be 
famous  and  rich." 


THE    ORPHANS. 


43 


This  struggle  of  generosity  was  often  renewed ;  but 
Isola  was  always  invincible.  She  shared  his  hopes  and 
aspirations,  and,  therefore,  could  not  think  of,)  in  any 
manner,  standing  in  the  way  of  his  advancement.  She 
said  that  he  was  wasted  on  a  newspaper,  and  ought  to 
accomplish  higher  things. 

She  accepted  the  situation.  She  had  to  submit  to 
the  too  common  lot  of  orphan  girls;  but  she  was  upheld 
by  the  proud  consciousness  of  being  no  obstacle  to  her 
lover's  success. 

He  gave  up  his  situation  on  the  newspaper.  He 
had  attained  the  Archimedean  standing-point — the 
7I0V  dr&3  of  his  career;  and  to  move  the  world  was 
now  his  object.  And  as  he  saw  his  poems  through  the 
press,  and  dwelt  with  all  an  author's  fondness  on  their 
beauties,  he  smiled  down  the  vague  fears,  which  the  re- 
curring sound  of  his  father's  sombre  warning  ever  and 
anon  called  up.  A  scaffold  ?  What  connection  had 
literature  with  that  ? 


BOOK     II. 

THE  LION. 

To  what  base  ends,  and  by  what  abject  ways, 
Are  mortals  urged  through  sacred  lust  of  praise  f 

Pope, 

Er  erinnerte  sich  der  Zeit,  in  der  sein  Geist  durch  ein  unbedingtes 
hofifnungsreiches  Streben  empor  gehoben  wurde,  wo  er  in  dem  leb- 
haftesten  Genusse  aller  Art,  wie  in  einem  Elemente  schwamm.  Es 
ward  ihm  deutlich,  wie  er  jetzt  in  ein  unbestimmtes  Schlendern  gera- 
then  war !  Gothe, 


CHAPTER   [. 

THE    LITERARY    LION. 

Les  devoirs  de  la  societe  !ui  devorent  son  temps;  et  le  temps  est 
le  seul  capital  des  gens  qui  n'ont  que  leur  intelligence  pour  fortune. 
11  aime  a  briller ;  le  monde  irritera  ses  desirs  qu'aucune  somme  ne 
pourra  satisfaire  ;  il  depensera  de  I'argent  et  n'en  gagnera  pas.  Les 
succes  litteraires  ne  se  conquerent  que  dans  la  solitude  et  par  d'obsti- 
nes  travaux.  De  Balzac. 

The  ball  was  splendid.  The  rooms  were  crowded 
with  lovely  women,  and  distinguished  men.  Grisi  was 
pouring  forth  a  torrent  of  song  from  her  exquisite 
throat;  and  the  guests  were  absolutely  listening! 

'•  Sir  Charles,"  said  Florence  Wilmmgton  (niece  of 
the  Lady  Theresa,  with  whom  Isola  had  been  for  some 
months  as  a  companion);  "  Sn*  Charles,  you  know 
everybody,  do  tell  me  who  that  is  leaning  against  the 
piano  talking  to  Grisi  ?" 

Sir  Charles,  thus  interrogated,  put  up  his  glass,  and 
let  it  fall  carelessly,  saying ; 

"  Don't  know,  positively." 

"  Emily,  my  dear,"  said  Florence,  to  the  daughter 
of  the  hostess,  who  was  then  passing,  "  do  tell  me  who 
that  young  man  is,  talking  to  Grisi." 

"  Don't  you  know  Percy  Ranthorpe  ?" 

"  What,  the  author  of  '  The  Dreams  of  Youth?'  1 
thought  he  was  a  poet  by  his  beauty  How  divinely 
handsome!" 

"  Shall  I  introduce  him,  Florence  ?" 

"  Do,  Emily  dear,  above  all  things!" 


48  RANTHORPE. 

"  Take  care  of  your  heart,  then,"  said  Emily,  laugh- 
ing ;  "  for  Apollo  himself  was  not  more  fascinating." 

"  Certainly  not  handsomer  ! " 

"  Will  you  risk  your  heart,  then  ?" 

"  Bah  !  let  him  beware  of  his  ! "  said  the  beauty, 
with  a  charming  toss  of  the  head. 

And  yet  any  girl  might  have  well  been  warned 
against  so  handsome  a  man  as  Percy  Ranthorpe.  He 
was  quite  a  picture,  as  he  stood  there  in  an  impassioned 
conversation  upon  music  with  the  lovely  young  Grisi. 
Giulia  Grisi  was  superbly  handsome  at  that  period,  like 
a  Greek  statue,  in  the  mould  of  her  head  and  bust ;  and 
was  peculiarly  attractive  to  Ranthorpe,  from  having 
somewhat  of  the  same  kind  of  beauty  as  Isola. 

Nothing  could  be  greater  than  the  contrast  of  Ran- 
thorpe's  appearance  at  that  moment,  with  that  at  the 
period  of  his  first  introduction  on  the  scene  of  this 
novel.  Instead  of  the  poor,  ill-dressed,  attorney's  clerk, 
he  was  now  dressed  in  the  newest  fashion — he  had  be- 
come a  "  Lion." 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  standing  up  with  Florence 
Wilmington  to  a  quadrille. 

"  I  dare  say,  Mr.  Ranthorpe,"  said  she,  with  a  most 
winning  air,  "you  will  think  me  very  missish;  but  I 
must  tell  you,  not  only  how  often  I  have  wished  for  the 
pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  but  also  that  I  at  once 
guessed  who  you  were  directly  I  saw  you."  A  little 
fib,  which  belongs  to  the  white  lies  of  society. 

Ranthorpe  bowed. 

"  But  don't  be  vain,"  she  said,  archly;  "for  after  all 
you  disappointed  me.  I  expected  something  more 
tragical  and  gloomy ;  something,  in  short,  which  should 
tell  of  the  sadness  uttered  in  your  poems." 


THE    LITERARY    LION.  49 

"Are  we  unfortunate  scribblers  then  bound  to  be 
always  in  a  state  of  melancholy  ?"  asked  Percy. 

"Why,  you  would  be  more  interesting." 

"  I  doubt  it.  A  melancholy  moment  or  so  may 
serv'e  as  a  condiment;  but  one  cannot  dine  off  spices." 

"But  I  don't  see  any  trace  of  sadness  about  you." 

"  How  could  I  be  sucli  a  brute  as  to  l)e  sad  when 
])asking  in  the  sunshine  of  your  smile  ?" 

"  Prettily  turned  off  But  you  have  desilhtslojine 
me.  I  shall  no  longer  believe  in  le  mor7ie  desespoir  of 
your  poems."  Florence  was  fond  of  studding  her  con- 
versation with  phrases  borrowed  from  French  novels. 

"  If  life  were  a  quadrille,  and  I  had  you  for  my 
partner,  believe  me  there  would  be  no  longer  any  sad- 
ness in  my  muse." 

"Oh!  don't  suppose  that  I  am  always  gay,"  said 
she,  bending  her  long  voluptuous  eyes  upon  hiuL 

"Are  you  ever  sad  ?" 

"Yes;  and  if  I  had  no  cause,  I  would  make  one. 
Toiijours  pcrdrix  is  unwholesome.  Perpetual  gaiety  is 
a  curry  without  rice.  I  see  another  volume  of  poems 
advertised  by  you.     Are  we  soon  to  have  it  ?" 

"  Very  shortly,  I  hope." 

"  Don't  you  admire  Grisi  ?  is  she  not  delic'irhseincut 

"  Like  a  bit  of  Greek  sculpture." 

"  Ah !  that's  so  like  you  authors  !  As  you  believe 
l>ooks  superior  to  realities,  so  you  always  prefer  a  statue 
to  a  woman." 

In  this  style  they  rattled  on.  Florence  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  a  conquest;  and  Ranthorpe  had  shown 
no  backwardness  in  replying  to  her  advances.  Accus- 
tomed as  he  had  been  for  some  months  to  the  flatteries 

4 


50  RANTHORPE. 

of  drawing-rooms,  he  had  learned  to  play  the  dangerous 
game  of  hadinai::^e  as  a  necessary  consecjuence  of  his 
position. 

He  was  neither  surprised  nor  intoxicated  by 
Florence's  evident  admiration.  The  success  of  the 
"  Dreams  of  Youth"  had  been  considerable.  Indeed 
the  small  critics  had  not  only  "  hailed  the  volume  with 
delight,"  but  declared  it  "  decidedly  superior  to  any  of 
the  season ;"  some  going  so  far  as  to  pronounce  the 
author  a  second  Byron.  Pungent  alone  remained  true 
to  his  character,  and  was  voluble  with  ponderous  levi- 
ties respecting  the  errors  and  crudities  of  the  poems. 
He  told  Ranthorpe  that  it  grieved  him  to  speak  so  of 
his  friend's  work  ;  but  that  he  owed  it  to  posterity  to  be 
uncompromising.     His  friend  forgave  him. 

The  sounder  critics,  though  scorning  the  stereotyped 
drivel  of  the  press,  and  seeing  in  the  "  Dreams  of  Youth" 
rather  a  skilful  echo  of  other  men's  thoughts,  than 
original  works,  yet  detected  touches  of  real  feeling,  lines 
of  exquisite  melody,  and  images  of  daring  felicity.  The 
beauties  they  quoted ;  the  errors  were  treated  leniently. 
This  is  dangerous  kindness,  and  has  ruined  many.  A 
poet  is  naturally  vain;  and  if  vain  when  unapplauded, 
unappreciated,  what  wonder  if  he  grow  arrogant  on 
applause?  He  rushes  into  the  world  full  of  ardor  and 
dreams  of  glory.  His  eyes  are  so  intently  fixed  upon 
the  star  that  shines  upon  the  double-crested  mount, 
Parnassus,  that  he  overlooks  the  steep  and  perilous 
ascent — an  ascent  which  must  be  climbed  with  toil,  and 
cannot  be  cleared  at  a  bound.  He  attempts  to  clear  it 
at  a  bound:  and  is  applauded  for  his  rashness.  Con- 
firmed in  his  error  by  applause,  and  believing  success 
easy,  he  takes  no  pains  to  achieve  it. 


THE    LITERARY    LION.  5 1 

'Tis  the  old  story  of  the  hare  and  the  tortoise! 

Ranthorpe  was  not  only  the  supreme  poet  of 
albums,  but  the  first  waltzer  in  London.  His  aristo- 
cratic air,  his  haughty  bearing,  his  beauty  and  success, 
soon  made  him  a  "  Lion." 

This  was  his  ruin.  The  poison  was  offered  to  him 
in  a  golden  cup,  and  he  greedily  swallowed  it.  With- 
out positively  regarding  "moving  in  the  first  circles," 
as  the  object  of  his  existence,  he  certainly  regarded  it 
as  the  best  means  to  attain  his  object.  He  looked  to 
patronage  for  success,  and  forgot  the  public  for  a 
coterie ! 

Wretched  youth!  He  had  lost  an  author's  courage 
to  endure  poverty  and  neglect,  to  live  unnoticed,  un- 
flattered,  unappreciated;  because  he  had  lost  that 
conception  of  his  mission  which  makes  martyrdom  a 
glory.  Poverty,  then,  for  the  first  time  appeared  in  all 
its  terrors.  It  was  not  only  poverty  to  him — it  was 
failure.  He  had  lived  upon  eight-pence  a  day,  and  had 
been  rich  upon  it.  He  now  lived  as  a  prodigal,  and 
dreaded  the  inevitable  termination  of  his  career.  In  the 
society  he  now  frequented,  he  believed  personal  influ- 
ence the  great  requisite  for  success;  and  that  his  "pow- 
erful friends"  would  remove  all  the  barriers  which  kept 
him  from  fortune  and  renown.  He  was  daily  getting 
more  of  these  friends;  fresh  houses  were  constanUy 
being  opened  to  him ;  his  position  in  society  was  daily 
becoming  more  prominent.  But  all  his  little  fortune 
was  squandered,  and  debts  were  fast  increasing.  At 
first  the  expenses  inevitable  upon  his  position  wrung 
from  him  secret  cries  of  anguish,  and  his  delight  at 
being  invited  to  some  country-seat  was  considerably 
alloyed  by  the  idea  of  what  it  would  cost  him.     He 


52  RANTHORPK. 

soon  got  over  this;  and  the  life  of  a  man  about  town 
suited  Jiis  disposition  so  well  that  he  insensibly  fell  into 
it,  and  squandered  his  money  with  a  poet's  reckless- 
ness. 

'Mlanthorpe,  can  1  set  you  down?"  asked  Sir 
Henry  Varden,  as  he  saw  Percy  about  to  withdraw. 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Percy,  '•  if  you  are  going 
now."  And  twining  his  arm  within  that  of  his  "pow- 
erful friend,"  he  descended  the  stately  staircase  with  a 
proud  feeling. 

"  Sir  Henry  Varden's  carriage  stops  the  way," 
roared  one  of  the  servants. 

"  Sir  Henry  is  coming  down,"  answered  another. 

The  next  minute  Ranthorpe  was  reclining  against 
the  easy-cushioned  back  of  his  friend's  carriage,  listen- 
ing to  his  remarks  with  tolerable  indifference,  till  Sir 
Henry  said : 

"  By  the  v.-ay,  you  made  a  fresh  conquest  to-night — 
Florence  Wilmington.     Take  care;  she's  a  terrible  flirt." 

"  T  am  in  no  dan.ger,  I  assure  you." 

"  Don't  you  admire  her?" 

"  Immensely.     But  my  heart  is  elsewhere." 

"So  much  the  better;  you  may  defy  her,  for  she 
intends  to  lay  siege  to  your  heart,  Pll  swear,  by  the 
triumi)hant  smile  with  which  she  learned  that  you  were 
to  be  at  Rushfield  Park  during  her  stay  there.  By  the 
way,  1  shall  be  going  down  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
w  hy  can't  you  accompany  me  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see.  The  day  after  to-morrow — well,  I 
see  no  obstacle — 1  certainly  will  avail  myself  of  vour 
offer." 

"  That's  settled,  then.  Jkit  here  we  are  at  your 
door." 


THE    LITERARY    LION.  53 

The  carriage  stopped  at  a  liouse  in  Dover-street, 
where  Ranthorpe  had  apartments.  Bidding  Sir  Henry 
adieu,  and  again  engaging  to  accompany  him  to  Rush- 
field  Park,  he  opened  the  door  with  his  latch-key,  and 
proceeded  to  his  room. 

"  Only  twelve,"  said  he,  looking  at  his  watch,  "  I 
must  do  a  little  work,  for  to-morrow  I  breakfast  out, 
and  that  will  be  another  day  lost." 

Another  day  lost!  He  actually  regretted  it,  and 
did  not  see  that  his  whole  life  was  a  series  of  such 
losses. 

He  opened  his  portfolio,  and  endeavored  to  work  at 
his  tragedy.  In  vain.  His  brain  was  sluggish,  or 
wasted  itselt  on  chimeras  and  air-castles.  When  he  at- 
tempted to  write,  the  sound  of  music  was  in  his  ears, 
and  the  forms  of  fair  women  amidst  brilliantly-lighted 
saloons  were  before  his  eyes  distracting  his  attention. 
The  real  poetic  fire  that  once  ran  through  his  veins,  no 
longer  gave  vitality  to  his  literary  projects.  He  was 
consumed  by  a  factitious  excitement ;  a  hectic  and  un- 
natural heat  burnt  out  his  energies. 

Upwards  of  an  hour  he  sat  there,  his  head  resting 
on  his  hand,  and  his  pen  vacantly  drawing  figures  on 
his  blotting-paper.  He  vainly  endeavored  to  arouse 
the  tragic  inspiration  by  thinking  of  the  necessity  of 
soon  finishing  his  play;  but  the  very  current  of  his 
thoughts  was  suflicient  to  destroy  all  genuine  enthu- 
siasm. 

I  cannot  belter  paint  the  situation  of  his  mind  than 
by  indicating  the  current  of  his  thoughts  on  this  as  on 
all  other  occasions  when  his  play  was  the  subject.  He 
thought  not  of  the  passions  and  motives  of  his  charac- 
ters ;  but  of  the  worldly  success  of  the  piece.     He  saw, 


54  RANTHORPE. 

in  his  mind's  eye,  gigantic  placards  announcing  that 
success.  The  words  EVERY  NIGHT  and  OVER- 
FLOWING AUDIENCES  forever  floated  before  him. 
He  read  imaginary  reviews,  wherein  the  critics  wel- 
comed his  piece  as  a  revival  of  the  intellectual  drama, 
and  were  sensitively  alive  to  all  its  subtler  beauties,  as 
to  all  the  splendor  of  its  poetry.  He  held  imaginary 
interviews  with  rival  managers  hungering  after  his  next 
play.  He  imposed  on  them  exorbitant  terms.  The 
money  was  already  laid  out ;  he  would  start  a  cab,  and 
remove  to  the  Albany.  He  should  be  able  to  continue 
the  career  of  a  man  about  town,  and  be  on  a  footing  of 
equality  with  his  acquaintances. 

Last  and  fatal  symptom  ! — he  never  thought  of  Isola 
as  the  sharer  of  this  splendor !  * 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    POET    OUT    IN    THE    WORLD. 

Se  oggidi  vivesse  in  terra 
Democrito,  (perch6  di  lagrimare 
lo  non  son  vago,  e  pero  taccio  il  nome 
T)'  Eraclito  dolente,)  or,  se  vivesse 
Fra  mortali,  Democrito,  per  certo 
Ei  si  smascellerebbe  della  risa, 
Guardando  le  sciocchezze  de'  mortali. 

Chiabrera, 

How  came  the  poet  so  transformed  ? 

This  question,  so  naturally  asked,  and  so  difficult  to 
answer,  is  important  for  the  future  interest  in  my  hero. 
Let  me  beg,  therefore,  some  attentive  consideration  of 
the  causes  which  influenced  him ;  let  me  trust  the 
reader  will  be  as  ready  to  detect  the  real  force  of  such 


THE  rOF.r  OUT  IN  THE  WORLD,  55 

circumstances  on  such  a  nature,  and  by  imagining  him- 
self in  the  same  position,  extenuate  the  eiTors  of  a  youth. 

Poets  are  proverbially  vain,  impressionable,  and  lux- 
urious; working  by  fits  and  starts,  as  the  impulse 
moves  them  ;  and  hating  all  continued  toil  that  is  not 
forced  upon  them  by  some  overmastering  idea;  very 
sensible  to  all  the  refinements  of  luxury;  and  very 
liable  to  act  upon  their  hopes  as  if  they  were  established 
certainties. 

These  general  qualities  Ranthorpe  shared;  and 
added  thereto  certain  peculiarities  of  position  and  edu- 
cation which  made  his  fall  the  easier.  He  had  been 
bred  amidst  pinching  economy,  with  the  constant  din- 
ning in  his  ears  of  maxims  relative  to  the  omnipotence 
of  wealtli ;  he  had  dined  for  weeks  together  on  dry 
bread,  to  be  able  to  purchase  some  envied  book;  he 
had  known  all  the  miseries  of  being  placed  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  social  ladder;  and  now  he  dined  off  the 
rarities  and  delicacies  of  the  season,  and  drank  the 
costliest  wines ;  things  which  had  a  sort  of  poetic  mag- 
nificence to  him,  who  had  only  dreamt  of  them  in 
reveries. 

The  fascinations  which  daily  tempted  his  soul,  and 
finished  by  subduing  it,  were  fascinations  to  him.  To 
those  born  to  splendor — to  those  even  who  had  known 
the  ease  and  comfort  of  moderate  incomes — the  things 
which  affected  Ranthorpe  would  have  had  little  attrac- 
tion. But  he  had  been  poor,  and  was  suddenly  plunged 
into  society  where  every  one  was  rich  ;  he  had  been  a 
miserable  attorney's  clerk  at  a  salary  of  ten  shillings  a 
week,  and  was  suddenly  elevated  to  the  society  where 
his  family — nay,  where  his  former  master — would  not 
have  been  admitted  on  any  sort  of  plea. 


56  RANTHORPE. 

It  Is  necessary  to  remember  this  if  one  would  under- 
stand the  sort  of  intoxicated  vanity  which  filled  him,  as 
he  lounged  into  the  large  and  splendid  rooms,  or  rolled 
along  in  the  luxurious  equipages  of  his  friends.  The 
respect  which  footmen  and  hall  porters  (those  incarna- 
tions of  fat  insolence)  invariably  paid  the  man — in 
whose  face  a  little  while  ago  they  would  have  slammed 
the  door — pleased  hira  no  less  than  the  flattery  of  the 
drawing-room.  The  sensations  which  he  felt  as  he  was 
driven  through  the  parks,  seated  beside  some  dandy,  or 
some  lady  of  fashion,  it  is  impossible  to  describe  !  He 
gazed  upon  the  foot  passengers  with  a  serene  good  nature. 
He  was  sure  they  must  be  envying  him.  Yet,  he  had  no 
carriage — his  genius  alone  gave  him  the  seat  he  occupied! 

And,  then,  the  contrast  between  the  manners  of  his 
new  friends  and  those  of  the  society  he  had  been  bred 
in!  The  low  soft  voice,  the  easy  carriage,  the  constant 
courtesy  of  manner,  even  in  uttering  the  greatest  im- 
pertinences— the  thousand  indescribable  nothings,  effects 
of  long  habit  and  education,  which  distinguish  well-bred 
people,  compared  with  the  loudness,  blunt  coarseness, 
undisguised  impertinence,  and  inelegance  of  his  former 
associates,  made  a  very  strong  impression  on  him.  He 
felt  a  childish  delight  in  wearing  yellow  kid  gloves  in 
the  street,  on  reflection  that  formerly  he  had  seldom 
worn  gloves  at  all.  Every  way  his  senses  tempted  him. 
AVhat  wonder  he  succumbed!  Was  he  not  luxurious, 
and  a  mere  boy  ? 

One  had  need  be  botli,  to  be  so  intoxicated  ! 

The  society  he  mixed  with  flattered  all  his  propen- 
sities. To  please  his  friends  he  had  no  need  of  study — 
and  he  was  idle.  Their  admiration  gratified  his  vanity, 
and  their  wealth  ministered  to  his  luxury. 


THE    POET    OUT    IN    THE    WORLD.  57 

This  was  the  fruit  of  his  lionism.  People  were 
pleased  to  have  him  at  their  parties ;  he  amused  them. 
But  these  very  people  would  not  have  given  him  a  six- 
pence ;  could  not  have  assisted  liim  in  the  world  of 
literature.  The  unfortunate  poet  had  renounced  the 
dream  of  being,  like  a  second  Petrarch,  crowned  in  the 
Capitol,  for  that  of  being  crowned  in  the  drawing-room. 

And  was  not  his  love  for  Isola  strong  enough  to  save 
him  ?  Alas  !  no.  That,  too,  had  not  escaped  the  con- 
taminating influence  of  his  ambition.  At  first  he  had 
regarded  his  elevation  into  a  higher  sphere  of  society  as 
a  triumph  which  he  should  one  day  call  her  to  share. 
But,  as  the  purity  of  his  intentions  became  effaced  by 
contact  with  impure  ambition,  he  began  to  blush  for 
her!  He  felt  that  the  social  inferiority  of  his  future 
wife  would  be  an  insuperable  barrier  to  her  admission 
into  "  circles,"  where  he  fancied  he  was  admitted  solely 
for  his  genius;  not  reflecting  that  handsome  young  men, 
of  gentlemanly  bearing,  and  living  in  a  certain  style, 
are  ahvays  gladly  invited  to  parties ;  and  that  he,  in 
spite  of  his  genius,  would  not  have  been  admitted,  had 
he  not  appeared  in  a  decent  coat  and  cravat. 

He  struggled  and  sophisticated  with  himself;  he 
would  not  own  tliat  his  engagement  was  irksome,  but 
he  felt  it  deeply.  He  felt  that,  with  Isola,  he  had 
nothing  but  a  laborious  and  precarious  existence  to 
look  forward  to. 

"Are  all  the  energies  that  pant  within  me  to  be 
frittered  away,"  he  would  ask  himself,  "  wasted  in  the 
desperate  struggle  for  daily  bread  ?  Must  I  renounce 
my  dreams  ?  Must  I  abjure  the  doctrines  which  I  burn 
to  teach,  for  those  only  that  will  sell  ?  Must  I,  too, 
write  for  the  market  ?     Horrible  !  horrible  !" 


58  RANTHORPE. 

And  the  coxcomb,  who  had  no  convictions  of  his 
own,  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  writing  for  the  popular 
wants.  The  adventurer,  who  had  abjured  his  mission 
to  maintain  a  wretched  place  in  society,  cheated  himself 
with  these  high-sounding  phrases.  Thus  must  we  ever 
cheat  ourselves  with  the  image  of  virtue,  even  when  our 
baser  impulses  plunge  us  into  vice. 

It  is  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  imaginative  natures, 
that  they  are  so  prompt  to  furnish  the  instruments  of 
their  own  destruction.  They  are  so  dangerously  fertile 
in  excuses  for  their  own  acts  !  They  are  so  dangerously 
endowed  with  the  faculty  of  turning  their  weakness  into 
apparent  calculatio7is — their  wis/ies  into  necessities^  that, 
for  an  act  which  a  well-principled  but  duller  man  could 
find  no  excuses,  and  would  therefore  shun  with  horror, 
they  can  invent  such  imperious  justifications,  such  mag- 
nificent sophisms,  as,  instead  of  turning  them  aside  in 
horror,  urge  them  to  pursue  their  c:ourse  in  triumph. 
Imagination  creates  idols,  and  then  falls  down  to  wor- 
ship them. 

Ranthorpe  was  sincere,  even  in  his  falsehood  He 
was  his  own  dupe.  It  should  also  be  added,  that  he 
very  seldom  saw  Isola;  so  that  the  evil  influences  of 
lionism  were  not  counteracted  by  her  presence.  Other 
thoughts  eifaced  her  image  from  his  heart.  She  was 
not  often  enough  by  his  side  effectually  to  renew  the 
impression.  He  was  unworthy  of  her;  and  this  made 
him  feel  uneasy  in  her  presence.  He  felt  lowered  be- 
fore her.  The  sophisms  which  deluded  him  never  with- 
stood the  limpid  clearness  of  her  good  sense.  Her  in- 
tellect was  too  upright  and  truthful  to  accept  the  ex- 
cuses which  to  him  were  valid.  She  did  not  tell  him 
so;  but  he  felt  it.     He  felt  that  the  reasons  which  to 


THE    MEDICAL    STUDENT.  59 

him  were  irresistible,  to  her  were  not  even  plausible; 
and  he  felt  considerable  anger  at  her  not  sharing  his 
illusions.  Men  resent  nothing  more  than  contradiction 
on  a  point,  which  they  themselves  feel  uneasy  about. 
Truth  may  be  disputed  with  impunity ;  a  sophism  can 
only  be  torn  from  out  the  mind  with  a  violence  that 
lacerates  and  embitters. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    MEDICAL    STUDENT. 

Son  los  estudiantes,  madre, 

De  muy  mala  condicion; 
Que  al  mirar  una  buena  moza, 

Mas  no  estudian  la  leccion. 

Scm^  of  the  Sn<iUian  Students. 

Est  enim  leporum 
Disertus  puer  ac  facetianim. 

Catullus. 

The  strawberry  grows  underneath  the  nettle, 
And  wholesome  berries  thrive  and  ripen  best 
Neighbor'd  by  fruit  of  baser  quality  : 
And  so  the  prince  obscured  his  contemplation 
Under  the  veil  of  wildness. 

Shakspeare. 

IsoLA  was  waiting  for  Ranthorpe  by  the  Kensington 
Gate  of  Hyde  Park.  He  had  written  to  appoint  this 
meeting,  to  say  adieu  before  leaving  town.  As  her 
duties  were  not  very  absorbing,  she  easily  escaped, 
upon  some  plea  of  shopping,  which  Lady  Theresa  al- 
ways accepted ;  and  this  was  the  only  means  she  had 
of  speaking  with  her  lover. 

A  weary  half  hour  past  the  appointed  time — which 
was  quadrupled  by  her  anxiety — had  she  waited,  and 


6o  RANTHORPE. 

Still  no  sign  of  her  lover.  She  felt  this  neglect  the  more, 
not  only  because  she  knew  he  was  master  of  his  time, 
but  also  she  had  observed  of  late  that  his  manner  was 
greatly  changed  towards  her.  Ready  enough  to  make 
excuses  for  him,  she  could  not  help  feeling  hurt.  While 
musing  on  this,  she  suddenly  heard  quickened  footsteps 
behind  her,  and,  thinking  it  was  her  lover,  turned  round 
a  beaming  face  of  welcome.  To  her  surprise  and  an- 
noyance, she  met  the  smiling  glance  of  a  young  gentle- 
man who  was  following  her  with  strictly  ^/j-honorablc 
intentions. 

Blushing  at  her  mistake  as  much  as  at  his  insulting 
glance,  she  walked  rapidly  on.  In  an  instant  he  was  at 
her  side;  and  addressed  to  her,  between  the  puffs  of  his 
cigar,  various  jocular  pleasantries  touching  her  charms, 
and  his  very  discriminating  appreciation  of  them.  With- 
out daring  to  look  up,  she  hastened  her  pace. 

"  Don't  hurry,  my  little  divinity,"  said  her  tormentor, 
"  and  pray  don't  be  alarmed.  What  can  make  you  fly 
from  such  a  lamb  as  I  am  ?  "  and  a  voluminous  column 
of  smoke  issued  from  his  mouth. 

This  lamb  was  Harry  Cavendish,  the  medical  stu- 
dent whom  we  introduced  to  the  reader  in  the  first 
chapter  of  this  tale. 

His  not  very  prepossessing  exterior,  joined  to  the 
easy  impertinence  of  his  address,  so  terrified  poor  Isola, 
that  it  was  some  time  before  she  could  summon  cour- 
age to  answer  him. 

"  Now,  my  inestimable  bandbox^  don't  be  modest," 
said  he;  "you're  really  very  handsome." 

"  I  beg,  sir,  you  will  cease  addressing  me,"  she  said, 
calmly ;  "  I  do  not  know  you." 

"  Exactly !  the  very  reason  why  you  should  remain 


']HE    MEDICAL    STUDEN  I'.  6'l 

fjuiet  till  you  do.  Running  away  is  not  the  readiest 
method  of  forming  a  lasting  acquaintance;  nor  is 
silence  the  most  satisfactory  sort  of  eloquence.  Re- 
strain your  paces,  my  angel,  and  listen.  I  am  Hya- 
cinth Napoleon  Potts,  heir  to  an  earldom,  fortune 
unknown.     You  are — " 

"Are  you  a  gentleman?"  she  inquired,  with  some 
effort. 

Harry  puffed  forth  a  column  of  smoke,  and  said : 

"Do  I  look  like  a  tailor?" 

A  tailor,  be  it  observed,  is  the  last  degradation 
humanity  can  reach  in  the  opinion  of  medical  students; 
and  it  is  probably  owing  to  this  contempt  for  their  per- 
sons, that  arises  the  indifference  to  notice  their  bills, 
wdiich  has  l)een  remarked  as  characteristic  of  the 
students. 

"  I  ask  you,  sir,  if  you  are  a  gentleman  ?  "  she  pur- 
sued, her  voice  regaining  its  accustomed  power.  "  Not 
how  you  look,  but  how  you  feel.  If  you  arc  one,  you 
must  see  that  your  language  is  an  insult,  and  an  insult 
to  a  woman  who  cannot  repel  it ! " 

Harry  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment  incredulous ;  but 
though  a  "  ri}),"  he  was  a  gentleman,  and  struck  by  the 
unmistakable  sincerity  and  dignity  of  her  manner,  and 
the  earnestness  of  her  tone,  raised  his  hat  respectfully, 
and  replied : 

"  Since  you  are  serious,  I  can  only  apologize  for  my 
mistake." 

She  bowed  and  passed  on.  He  watched  her  till  out 
of  sight,  and  then  resumed  his  promenade. 

This  incident  represents  two  phases  of  his  character; 
and  as  he  is  about  to  occupy  a  large  portion  of  this  his- 
tory, I  may  as  well  pencil  his  prominent  i^eculiarities. 


62  RANTHORPE. 

Harry  Cavendish  was,  to  most  people,  a  mere  medi- 
cal student,  of  ebullient  animal  spirits,  extreme  good 
nature,  somewhat  slang  and  dissipated.  To  those  who 
knew  him  as  did  Ranthorpe  (with  whom  he  had  re- 
cently become  acquainted),  he  was  a  very  different 
being;  though  the  mixture  of  slang  and  sentiment  in 
his  composition  was  a  perpetual  puzzle.  He  was  cer- 
tainly not  one  of  those  who  "  wear  their  hearts  upon 
their  sleeves,  in  compliment  externe."  Nothing  could 
be  finer  than  his  real  nature ;  but  it  was  somewhat  tar- 
nished and  distorted  by  his  education,  and  by  habits 
picked  up  from  his  fellow-students.  The  unpretending 
heroism  which  pulsed  beneath  that  extravagant  exte- 
rior and  dissipated  habits — the  delicacy  and  generosity 
of  feeling  which  distinguished  him,  this  tale  will  fully 
exhibit.  He  was  really  as  romantic  as  he  aspired  to  be 
rakish  ;  he  was  not  a  "  rough  diamond,"  but  never  was 
diamond  set  in  more  extravagant  bad  taste.  His  vir- 
tues were  his  own ;  his  vices  he  owed  to  his  position  as 
a  student. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE    lovers'    meeting. 

How  her  heart  beats  ! 

Much  like  a  partridge  in  a  sparhawk's  foot, 
That  with  a  panting  silence  does  lament 
The  fate  she  cannot  fly  from. 

Massinger. 

Not  unobserved  did  Harry  quit  his  pursuit  of  Isola. 
Ranthorpe  entered  the  park  in  time  to  see  him  raise  his 
hat  and  depart.     A  feeling  of  jealousy  first  shot  across 


THE    lovers'    meeting.  63 

his  heart;  but  the  respectful  manner  in  which  Harry 
had  taken  his  leave  soon  suggested  the  thought  of  his 
being  a  stranger.  But  when  did  he  learn  to  know  her ; 
and  how  ? 

These  and  other  thoughts  assailed  him  as  he  walked 
rapidly  towards  I  sola,  whose  agitation,  when  they  met, 
2:)uzzled  and  irritated  him.  He  resolved  not  to  begin 
upon  the  subject,  that  he  might  see  whether  she  would 
refer  to  it. 

The  air  was  warm,  and  lazily  fanned  their  cheeks ; 
the  sky  was  cloudless,  and  dim  with  heat ;  everything 
without  bespoke  calmness  and  happiness — a  painful 
contrast  to  the  "  world  within"  of  these  two  lovers. 

She  met  him  with  a  palpitating  heart — a  heart 
wounded  by  neglect,  yet  fluttering  with  its  love.  He 
came  haggard,  despondent,  and  bitter.  At  the  first 
glance  of  his  wretchedness,  she  forgave  him  ;  her  pangs 
were  forgotten  in  her  sympathy  with  his. 

After  a  few  questions  and  answers — excuses  mostly — 
he  could  no  longer  restrain  himself  from  asking  how 
long  she  had  known  Harry  Cavendish.  She  did  not 
understand  him.  He  then  told  her  how  he  had  seen 
Harry  bid  her  adieu  but  a  few  minutes  before.  She 
related  what  had  happened, 

Ranthorpe  was  silent.  His  brow  was  so  gloomy 
that  Isola  dared  not  question  him;  so  in  silence  the^ 
walked  on.  He  was  suffering  a  martyrdom  of  vanity 
at  the  thought  of  his  affianced  bride's  social  position. 
"  To  be  spoken  to  by  every  roue — to  be  treated  as  a 
milliner,"  he  said  to  himself:  "no  more  free  from  insult 
than  the  humblest  of  her  sex ;  and  perhaps  my  friends 
will  recognize  in  my  wife,  the  girl  whom  they  have 
attempted  to  seduce ! " 


64  RANTHORPE. 

These  thoughts  irritated  him.  So  keen  was  the 
expression  of  pain  upon  his  countenance,  that  Isola 
attributed  his  silence  to  physical  suffering.  She  ven- 
tured timidly  to  ask  him  if  he  were  ill. 

"  Not  precisely  ill,"  he  said,  "  but  jaded.  Ivate 
hours — heated  rooms — dissipation;"  he  was  glad  of  the 
excuse,  so  continued  :  "  moreover,  the  sad  necessity  of 
mixing  in  the  ruinous  frivolities  of  society." 

"Why  mix  in  them?"  she  asked,  with  divine  sim- 
plicity. 

But  this  home-thrust  of  natural  logic  pierced  not 
the  thick  shield  of  vanity.  She  could  not  understand 
how  men  cling  to  follies  which  they  see  through,  and 
which  they  abuse  in  bitterness  of  spirit.  As  the  drunk- 
ard in  his  sober  moments  curses  wine,  so  could  Rn:> 
thorpe  curse  society. 

''I  must  court  it,"  he  said,  "although  I  despise  it. 
In  London  there  is  no  success  without  triends.  Every 
thing  is  got  by  interest.  Patient  merit  must  be  content 
with  its  patience." 

*'But  can  you  not  rely  upon  yourself?"  said 
she. 

"  No,"  replied  he,  "  I  cannot  in  England  ;  elsewhere 
1  might.  In  England,  merit  unheralded  wins  no  A'ic- 
tory ;  unpatronized,  gains  no  attention;  the  soldiers  win 
the  battle,  Init  the  generals  get  the  fame.  If  genius  be 
struggling  and  starving,  it  may  struggle  and  starve;  but 
if  it  seems  to  have  no  need  of  the  world,  the  world  is  at 
its  feet." 

"  But,  dearest,  are  you  not  already  known  ?  Your 
poems  have  been  wonderfully  successful ;  and  your 
society  is  sought  by  those  you  call  influential ;  will  they 
not  assist  you  ?'* 


THE    lovers'    meeting.  65 

"Assist!"  he  said,  bitterly.  "Yes — yes — the  assist- 
a7icc  of  friends — we  know  that !" 

*'  How  bitter  you  are." 

"  Bitter  ?  Ay,  lessons  of  adversity  are  bitter !  Is  it 
not  bitter  to  find  youthful  dreams  nothing  but  dreams  ? 
To  find  all  your  hopes  unrealized,  thoughts  misunder- 
stood, friends  false,  and  fame  a  mockery  ?  Is  it  not 
bitter,"  he  continued,  grinding  his  teeth,  "  to  see  the 
courageous  heart  of  man  cowed  into  nothingness  by  the 
swart  shadow  of  Respectability  ?  Is  it  not  bitter  to  see 
the  tinsel  of  the  gauds  of  life  fixed  on  the  pedestals 
where  should  stand  the  men  of  genius  ?  Is  it  not  bitter 
to  discover  that  the  grand  mistake  in  life  is  sincerity, 
and  that  one  had  better  have  every  vice,  and  agree  with 
the  world,  than  every  virtue  and  differ  with  it  ?" 

He  was  acting.  Instinctively,  but  dimly,  Isola  felt 
it.  These  phrases,  however,  affected  her,  not  in  them- 
selves, but  as  indicative  of  the  state  of  his  mind.  Oh ! 
how  unlike  had  he  become  to  that  young  poet,  who  on 
eight-pence  a  day  had  looked  cheerily  in  the  face  of  the 
world,  and — 

"  Strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield.''* 

"The  seal  is  taken  off  my  eyes,"  he  continued. 
"  The  veil  is  lifted  which  concealed  the  world :  I  see  it 
now  in  all  its  shivering  nakedness— ;^r  I  am  poor''' 

"You  have  been  poorer,"  she  mildly  suggested. 
"  Oh  !  Percy,  do  not  despair.  Think  not  so  ill  of  the 
world :  it  is  full  of  love  and  kindness,  and  will  cherish 
its  teacher." 

"Cherish?    Yes:    when  I  am  dead! — They  break 

*  Tennyson. 
5 


66  RANTHORPE. 

the  poet's  heart;  but;  oh!  good  people!  they  honor 
his  ashes.  They  throw  the  hvmg  man  into  prison ;  or 
let  him  starve  and  rot.  The  dead  man  is  placed  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  under  Latin  inscriptions.  The 
workhouse  and  a  monument — these  are  the  poet's  re- 
wards !" 

"You  exaggerate." 

"  No ;  I  speak  but  the  truth.  We  authors  live  for 
humanity :  if  we  fail,  men  laugh  at  us ;  if  we  succeed, 
they  envy  and  malign  us;  if  we  differ  from  them,  they 
trample  on  us !" 

She  made  no  reply.  Her  truthful  nature,  however 
unsuspicious,  could  not  accept  his  acting  as  natural 
feehng.  She  felt  that  there  was  something  beneath  his 
words  and  manner,  though  she  knew  not  what. 

"  I  must  maintain  my  footing  in  society,"  he  said, 
shortly  afterwards,  "at  the  cost  of  the  greatest  priva- 
tions. In  England  to  seem  poor  is  to  be  poor.  And  of 
all  curses  poverty  is  the  worst." 

"  You  did  not  always  think  so." 

"  Not  when  I  was  younger,  less  experienced.  Be- 
sides," he  added,  and  his  voice  faltered,  "  I  had  only 
then  to  brave  it  for  myself.  Now  I  have  to  think  of 
you ;  and  to  think  of  you  in  want,  is  fearful  to  me." 

"  And  it  is  for  me — "  she  began,  with  a  look  of 
triumphant  tenderness. 

"  For  you — for  you,"  he  replied,  "  I  would  have  all 
that  wealth  can  bestow." 

"  And  what  is  this  boasted  all  that  money  can  be- 
stow ?"  she  said,  with  enthusiasm,  quite  thrown  off  her 
suspicions  by  that  one  hint.  "  Money  can  furnish 
palaces,  but  it  cannot  fill  the  heart ;  it  cannot  purchase 
the  supporting  strength  of  love.     It  can  make  the  brow 


THE    lovers'    meeting.  6/ 

glitter  with  jewels;  can  it  make  the  cheek  glow  with 
ruddy  health?  Can  it  chase  the  quivering  from  an 
anguished  lip — a  tear  from  the  burning  eye  ?  Can  it 
give  health — repose  —  content?  Not  one  of  these! 
Then  what  a  splendid  braggart  is  this  wealth  ! " 

He  smiled  mournfully  at  her  enthusiasm,  and  said : 
"  You  think  so  because  you  are  young." 

"  I  think  so  because  I  love ! " 

*'  Frankly,  then,  do  you  not  dread  poverty — if  not 
for  yourself,  then  at  least  for  your  children  ?" 

"  No,  I  have  courage.  Poverty  is  the  least  evil 
that  can  affect  me.     Love  makes  life's  burdens  light." 

"  Truly ;  but  it  is  no  shield  against  misfortunes." 

"  Yes,  Percy,  against  every  thing.  We  have  in  this 
life  all  to  struggle,  and  much  to  endure.  Life's  har- 
mony must  have  its  discords ;  but  as  in  music,  pathos 
is  tempered  into  pleasure  by  the  pervading  spirit  of 
beauty,  so  are  all  life's  sorrows  tempered  by  love." 

"  Then  should  that  love  be  very  certain,"  he  said, 
fixedly. 

"  Who  doubts  ours  ?"  The  calm  trustingness  with 
which  she  said  this,  made  Percy  wince;  looking  into 
her  exquisite  face  he  saw  an  irresistible  commentary  on 
her  words.  He  was  silenced.  His  silence  awoke 
strange  misgivings  in  her  breast.  "  Surely,  Percy,  you 
have  no  doubts  of  me  ?" 

"  Listen,  Isola;  and  listen  calmly.  We  are  now  at 
a  point  in  our  lives  when  a  false  step  will  be  irrecover- 
able. You  are  still  very  young,  and  may  not  know 
your  own  heart.  Mind ;  I  do  not  doubt  you  love.  No ! 
But  how  often  is  a  first  love  succeeded  by  a  second, 
and  a  third  —  when  wider  experience  —  but,  good 
heavens !  you  are  crying  ! " 


68  RANTHORPE. 

Crying  !  her  young  heart  was  breaking !  One  flash 
of  Hght  had  revealed  to  her  the  abyss  on  the  brink  of 
which  she  was  standing. 

"  Isola,  Isola !  Do  not  weep.  I  was  talking  but  of 
possibilities — things  which  may  never  be,  but  which  vmst 
be  looked  in  the  face.     Come,  come ;  don't  be  foolish." 

"  I  foreboded  it,"  she  sobbed. 

'^  Foreboded  what  ?"  he  asked,  with  some  irritation. 

"  That  it  would  come  to  this." 

"  Come  to  what  ?" 

*'  You  do  not  love  me  ! " 

"  Very  well !  very  well !  Directly  I  wish  to  talk 
reasonably,  I  am  supposed  to  love  you  no  more  !  Just 
like  women  !     But  you  will  not  hear  me  !" 

"  I  have  heard  too  much  already  for  my  peace. 
Our  engagement  alarms  you." 

"  It  does — but  on  your  account.  You  know  how  I 
have  faced  poverty ;  you  know  how  little  I  care  for  the 
world.  But  you  do  not  know  how  hideous  poverty  is, 
when  you  see  it  brought  upon  another  by  your  means ! 
I  dread  it,  because  it  would  destroy  that  which  gives 
life  its  value — love !  Think  of  us,  married,  and  poor. 
My  temper  is  irritable — want  sours  the  best  of  tempers. 
I  should  be  cross  to  you — and  then  the  necessity  for  in- 
cessant labor  will  keep  me  perpetually  away  from  your 
side.  Oh  ! "  he  exclaimed,  passionately,  "  love  never 
could  survive  that !  Love,  which  lives  upon  perpetual 
kindness,  which  is  grace,  beauty,  happiness — could  not 
survive  the  blistering  curse  of  poverty." 

Isola  continued  weeping,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  Then,  to  think  of  you  in  want — your  beauty  tar- 
nished by  suffering — your  hands  hardened  by  labor — 
and  our  children,   so  many  silent  reproaches  on  the 


THE    lovers'    meeting.  69 

parents  who  brought  them  into  the  world,  without  the 
means  of  feeding  them  when  there.  The  thought  is 
appalHng ! " 

She  had  checked  her  sobs,  and  dried  her  eyes.  A 
sudden  resolution  had  given  her  fortitude.  In  a  calm, 
low,  but  unfaltering  voice  she  said : 

"  Percy,  you  are  right.  Our  union  would  be  cursed 
with  poverty ;  and  that,  as  you  say,  is  the  worst  of  ills ; 
and  I  agree  with  you — when  love  is  absent.  I  should 
be  a  burden  to  you.  I  should  have  blighted  your 
prospects.  Think  no  more  of  it.  From  this  moment 
consider  me  as  a  sister." 

The  agony  which  distorted  her  face  belied  the  calm- 
ness of  her  manner.  Percy  felt  it — and  felt  a  sudden 
sense  of  humiliation,  at  having  given  one  who  loved 
him  such  pain.  He  could  not  continue  the  part  he 
had  assumed.  He  unsaid  all  that  he  had  said ;  he  pro- 
tested that  his  fears  were  dissipated  by  her  confidence ; 
he  conjured  her  to  forget  them — to  think  only  of  his 
undying  love;  to  hope  in  the  future.  He  was  pas- 
sionate— eloquent — and  in  earnest.  She  was  too  willing 
to  believe  him ;  and  they  parted  with  mutual  vows  and 
mutual  protestations,  that  the  future  must  bring  them 
happiness,  if  they  could  await  it  courageously. 

Percy  returned  home  in  a  state  of  great  excitement. 
This  soon  wore  off;  and  he  almost  repented  of  the  ter- 
mination to  their  interview,  when  he  came  calmly  to 
look  at  his  condition.  He  did  not  know  it,  but  the 
truth  was,  that  his  love  for  Isola  was  stifled  b}'  other 
feelings.  It  was  a  love  which  had  its  roots  in  the  heart 
of  the  manful,  struggling,  dreamy  poet ;  but  which  was 
altogether  out  of  place  in  the  heart  of  an  idle,  intoxi- 
cated, feverish  Lion  ! 


70  RANTHORPE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

FIRST    LESSONS    OF    ADVERSITY. 

Viendole  asi  D.  Quijote  le  dijo :  yo  creo,  Sancho,  que  todo  este 
mal  te  viene  de  no  ser  armado  caballero. 

Cervantes. 

What  a  bridge 

Of  glass  I  walk  upon,  over  a  river 

Of  certain  ruin,  mine  own  weighty  fears 

Cracking  what  should  support  me. 

Majsinger. 

"  Voila,  disais-je,  un  homme  qui  s'est  donnd  le  temps  de  penser 
avant  d'^crire ;  et  moi,  dans  le  plus  difficile  et  le  plus  perilleux  des 
arts,  je  me  suis  hat^  de  produire  presqu'  avant  que  d'avoir  pense." 

Marmontel  :  Mimoires. 

Ranthorpe  had  soon  to  leam  the  bitter  lesson  of 
how  impotent  were  all  his  "  powerful  friends,"  to  bring 
him  one  step  nearer  to  the  goal  of  his  ambition. 
This  announcement  appeared  in  the  papers : 
"  On  Monday  next,  the   15th,  will  be  published,  in 
one  vol.,  8vo,  loi-., 

LYRICS, 

By  Percy  Ranthorpe,  Esq., 

Author  of  *  The  Dreams  of  Youth.' 

Also,  Dreams  of  Youth.     Third  Edition. 

'  Exquisite  imaginings.' — Morning  Paper. 

'  A  volume  of  lofty  ideality.  Mr.  Ranthorpe  will  take  rank  beside 
the  most  intellectual  of  our  poets.' — Evening  Paper. 

Those  who  read  this  announcement  were  naturally 
prepared  for  a  volume  of  some  pretensions.  Reviews 
were  awaited  with  impatience.  It  was  a  publication  of 
some  moment :  it  made  Of  marred  the  poet. 


FIRST    LESSONS    OF    ADVERSITY.  7 1 

Authors  do  not  sufficiently  consider  this.  Instead 
of  surpassing  themselves  in  their  second  attempt,  they 
generally  produce  something  inferior  to  their  first.  But 
if  the  second  be  really  equal  to  the  first,  it  will  be 
thought  inferior,  because  the  public  expect  more. 

The  "  Lyrics"  were  confidently,  carelessly  written: 
products  of  necessity,  not  of  inspiration  :  written  be- 
cause the  poet  wanted  to  bring  out  another  volumie,  not 
because  feelings  and  thoughts  within  him  struggled  for 
utterance. 

With  this  inferiority  in  poetical  value,  the  "Lyrics" 
had  to  contend  against  the  severity  of  a  watchful  criti- 
cism, which  the  "  Dreams  of  Youth "  had  disarmed. 
Those  who  were  really  influential— who  had  spared  the 
youth  and  inexperience  of  his  former  volume — who  had 
cheered  him  to  fulfil  the  promise  he  had  given,  recom- 
mending study  and  care — these  men  were  all  against 
him.  Whether  some  feeling  of  indignation  at  having 
been  deceived,  or  of  his  not  having  taken  their  advice, 
mingled  with  their  feelings  of  distaste  at  the  carelessness 
and  conceit  exhibited  in  this  volume,  I  will  not  say. 
Critics,  like  other  men,  resent  their  prophecies  not  being 
fulfilled.  Certain  it  is,  however,  that  this  volume  plainly 
told  them  that  here  was  another  noble  spirit  ruined  by 
success.  The  cutting  severity  of  their  reviews  was 
heightened  by  the  evident  sorrow  which  accompanied 
their  blame. 

One  sentence  from  a  review  I  may  here  transcribe, 
as  falling  in  with  the  moral  lesson  meant  to  be  con- 
veyed by  this  tale : 

"  Mr.  Ranthorpe  has  mistaken  the  conditions  of 
rapid  writing.  The  history  of  literature  would  convince 
him  that  no  one  ever  produced  excellent  works  in  quick 


72  RANTHORPE. 

succession,  who  had  not  quaUfied  himself  by  many 
years'  study  and  reflection.  He  who  has  accumulated 
stores  of  experience  may  write  rapidly,  because  the 
interval  which  must  elapse  before  his  materials  are 
exhausted  will  itself  be  long  enough  for  him  to  accumu- 
late fresh  materials.  The  neglect  of  this  obvious  rule 
is  the  ruin  of  so  many  young  men,  who,  after  giving 
splendid  promises,  dwindle  into  insignificance:  buds 
that  never  become  flowers ;  fruits  that  are  rotten  before 
they  are  ripe." 

Not  only  were  the  serious  critics  severe;  but  the 
"  small  fry"  were  outrageous.  The  volume  was  received 
with  universal  condemnation. 

Ranthorpe  suffered  deeply,  horribly.  In  vain  did 
he  endeavor  to  console  himself  by  saying  these  criti- 
cisms were  the  productions  of  "  envy  " — in  vain  did  he 
try  to  shut  his  eyes  to  the  failure  manifest  before  him. 
In  vain  did  he  exclaim,  "  these  criticisms  live  only  for 
the  day ;  my  poems  will  survive  them."  In  vain  did 
he  sophisticate ;  there  were  not  forty  copies  sold. 

What  then  became  of  his  "  powerful  fiiends  ? " 
They  had  been  his  flatterers ;  more  they  could  not  be. 
"  Powerful  friends "  could  not  give  him  genius,  could 
not  endow  his  verse  with  vitality  and  beautv.  ''  Pow- 
erful friends  "  were  not  reviewers — "  powerful  friends  " 
were  not  the  jDubHc. 

Too  many  aspirants  share  this  idle  delusion  about 
powerful  friends  for  me  not  to  insist  upon  it  here.  One 
illustration,  striking  and  conclusive,  will  suffice.  It  is 
this.  When  noblemen,  as  they  often  do,  enter  the  field 
of  literature,  all  the  prestige  of  their  names,  all  the  influ- 
ence of  their  "  powerful  connections,"  can  neither  force 
their  works  upon  the  public,  nor  redeem  them  from  ridi- 


FIRST    LESSONS    OF    ADVERSITY.  73 

cule  and  contempt.  Hundreds  of  instances  might  be 
quoted ;  but  the  fact  is  sufficiently  patent  in  itself  1 
would  ask  the  aspirant,  therefore,  this  sim.ple  question  : 
If  "the-  great"  cannot  help  one  of  themselves,  what 
likelihood  is  there  of  their  succeeding  for  a  protege  ? 

But,  worse  than  all,  "  powerful  friends"  not  only  give 
no  laws  to  the  pubHc,  but  absolutely  receive  its  verdict ; 
and  what  it  refuses  to  accept  as  poetry,  they  regard  as 
trash  !  Ranthorpe  was  shorn  of  his  glorious  mane  :  he 
went  into  society,  and  found  himself  no  longer  a  Lion ! 

He  had  to  learn,  not  only  the  impotence  of  a  co- 
terie, but  the  serious  truth  that  literature  is  not  a  field  to 
sport  in :  that  there,  insolence  and  audacity  a^e  quickly 
crushed;  and  that  a  man  is  not,  there,  accepted  for  what 
he  holds  himself.  He  had  to  learn  that  puffery  or  luck, 
though  it  may  give  a  momentary  success,  cannot  sustain 
it:  real  ability  alone  does  that.  Sooner  or  later,  the 
puffed-out  wind-bag,  floating  so  buoyantly  aloft,  is 
pricked  by  a  pin,  and  then  tumbles  into  the  mire,  never 
to  rise  again.  A  first  success  is  the  premier  pas ;  but 
in  literature,  it  is  not  t\\Q  premier  pas  qui  ccmte. 

At  any  other  time,  this  failure  might  have  opened 
hi-6  eyes  to  his  true  position.  But  alas !  his  eyes  were 
dazzled,  his  head  was  turned,  his  heart  was  intoxicated. 
Love  abetted  vanity  in  deceiving  him. 

Yes,  love !  He  had  fallen  into  the  snares  of  the 
fascinating  Florence  Wilmington;  fallen  slowly,  uncon- 
sciously, but  irretrievably.  He  had  been  much  thrown 
with  her  during  his  stay  at  Rushfield  Park.  She  had 
determined  to  captivate  him,  and  succeeded.  Since  his 
return  to  town,  he  had  been  a  frequent  visitor  at  Lady 
Wilmington's ;  and  had  drunk  deeply  of  the  poisoned 
goblet  which  the  lily  hand  of  Florence  held  up  to  him. 


74  RANTHORPE. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE    TWO    SISTERS. 

Sweet  alluring  eyes  ;  a  fair  face  made  in  despite  of  Venus,  and  a 
stately  port  in  disdain  of  Juno ;  a  wit  apt  to  conceive  and  quick  to 
answer.  What  of  this  ?  Though  she  have  heavenly  gifts  of  beauty, 
is  she  not  earthly  metal,  flesh,  and  blood  ? 

Lyly  :  Alexander  and  Campaspe. 

But  the  heaven-enfranchised  poet 

Must  have  no  exclusive  home. 
He  must  feel  and  gladly  show  it, — 

Phantasy  is  made  to  roam  : 
He  must  give  his  passions  range, 

He  must  serve  no  single  duty, 

But  from  Beauty  pass  to  Beauty, 
Constant  to  a  constant  change. 

MONCKTON  MiLNES. 


Florence  Wilmington  was  a  flirt — that  is  to  say, 
she  had  great  animal  spirits,  great  vanity,  and  as  a 
spoiled  child,  had  never  been  taught  to  heed  conse- 
quences. Ranthorpe  was  handsome,  celebrated,  and 
lively;  he  was,  therefore,  a  very  proper  flirting  com- 
panion. She  began  to  throw  her  spells  around  him  at 
first  innocently  enough ;  but  when  she  found  that  the 
impassioned  poet  v/as  becoming  serious,  and  supposed 
her  to  be  so,  she  thought  of  putting  an  end  to  the 
game.  Just  as  she  was  about  to  quit  Rushfield  Park, 
however,  Sir  Henry  Varden  warned  her  not  to  lose  her 
heart  to  Ranthorpe,  as  his  was  engaged  elsewhere.  She 
was  surprised ;  scrutinized  Ranthorpe's  manner  closely ; 
and  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  an  adventurer 
feigning  love  in  hopes  of  making  her  a  stepping-stone. 
Her  vanity  was  piqued,  and  she  resolved  in  secret  to 


THE    TWO    SISTERS. 


75 


punish  him,  by  making  him  really  and  desperately  in 
love  with  her.  Accordingly,  on  reaching  London,  she 
began  a  system  of  alternate  coolness  and  tenderness 
irritating  and  maddening  the  unhappy  poet,  by  keeping 
him  in  a  constant  fever  of  suspense  and  doubt. 

Ranthorpe  long  endeavored  to  hide  from  himself 
that  he  loved  her.  He  juggled  with  his  conscience; 
and  tried  to  convince  himself  that  it  was  only  her  lively 
manners,  which  made  him  prefer  dancing  with  or  talk- 
ing to  her;  and  he  thought  of  Isola,  and  tried  to  make 
her  image  drive  that  of  Florence  from  his  heart ;  but  in 
vain.  He  seldom  saw  Isola ;  and  when  he  did,  he  was 
always  despondent.  Florence,  on  the  other  hand,  al- 
ways either  animated  him  beyond  expression,  or  made 
him  jealous  and  exasperated.  Do  what  he  would, 
Florence  alone  occupied  his  thoughts. 

While  he  was  thus  carried  away  by  the  fascinations 
of  one  sister,  another  sister  was  silently  cherishing  a 
secret  adoration  for  him.  Fanny  was  very  unlike 
Florence.  Without  being  plain,  yet  her  complexion 
was  so  sallow,  and  so  lined  with  illness  and  melan- 
choly, that  she  seemed  plain  at  first  sight.  Those  who 
loved  her,  thought  her  beautiful.  There  was  a  deep 
cjuiet  in  her  hazel  eye,  and  a  winning  sweetness  in  her 
smile,  which  few  could  withstand.  But  she  had  no  ad- 
mirers among  young  men,  she  was  so  shy  and  reserved. 
Elderly  men,  with  whom  she  felt  more  at  ease,  pro- 
nounced her  a  paragon. 

In  character  she  was  as  earnest  as  her  sister  was 
frivolous.  Ill-health  had  greatly  secluded  her  from 
society,  and  had  thrown  her  upon  the  society  of  her 
books.  In  the  solitudes  of  her  library  she  had  formed 
her  heart  and  mind.     The  result  was  an  excessive  shy- 


76  RANTHORPE. 

ness,  which  veiled  with  coldness  a  warm,  loving,  and 
romantic  nature.  Her  days  were  usually  spent  with 
her  aunt,  Lady  Theresa.  There  she  learned  to  know 
and  value  Isola,  for  whom  she  conceived  a  strong 
sisterly  affection.  Fanny  understood  Isola;  Isola  under- 
stood her,  and  loved  her. 

Between  these  two  beings  there  never  was  a  sus- 
picion of  "  the  difference  of  station."  From  the  first, 
their  relation  towards  each  other  had  been  divested  of 
all  conventionality.  One  secret  alone  was  ever  kept 
from  each  other — their  mutual  love  for  Ranthorpe. 

Yes,  Fanny  loved  Ranthorpe,  though  she  knew  it 
not.  He  had  been  the  first  young  man  whom  she 
could  admire,  who  had  vanquished  her  diffidence.  A 
few  interviews  with  him,  in  which  they,  unrestrained, 
poured  forth  all  that  was  in  their  hearts,  had  completely 
subjugated  her.  In  such  natures  love  is  of  sudden 
growth;  and  Ranthorpe,  quite  unconscious  of  the  poison 
he  was  instilling,  pleased  at  having  a  listener  who  so  well 
appreciated  him,  sought  her  society  whenever  he  could 
not  engross  that  of  Florence.  As  Fanny  always  saw  him 
so  very  lively  when  with  Florence,  she  did  not  suspect 
his  attachment.     Love  to  her  was  always  serious. 

Ranthorpe  had  no  suspicion  of  the  love  he  inspired. 
In  fact,  he  had  eyes  for  no  one  but  Florence  —  no 
thoughts  for  any  one  but  for  Florence,  and  she  made 
him  miserable.  Remorse  for  his  treachery  to  Isola,  and 
doubts  respecting  Florence,  tortured  him. 

At  this  juncture,  Wynton  one  day  called,  and  find- 
ing him  in  a  very  excited  state,  began  talking  on  his 
prospects.  From  several  incoherent  remarks,  Wynton 
at  length  divined  the  real  cause  of  his  unusual  excite- 
ment, and  said  abruptly  to  him : 


THE    TWO    SISTERS.  77 

"  Percy,  you  are  in  love  with  Florence  Wilmington." 
He  started,  and  colored. 

"  Do  not  deny  it,"  continued  Wynton ;  "  look  your 
malady  boldly  in  the  face,  and  I  will  help  you  to  cure 
it." 

"  Malady  ! — cure  ! " 

"  Malady,  yes — poison !  There,  go  and  blow  your 
brains  out  at  once.  Do  anything  but  give  up  your 
heart  to  be  gnawed  by  the  cruellest  of  all  vultures — a 
coquette." 

"  You  are  raving,  Wynton." 

"  I  am  horribly  serious.  It  is  my  friendship  for  you 
makes  me  so ;  if  my  manner  is  a  httle  wild,  it  is  owing 
to  recollections  which  ....  Enough !  I  tell  you, 
in  sober  sadness,  that  your  passion  for  Florence  Wil- 
mington, if  you'ij  do  not  conquer  it,  will  be  the  greatest 
misfortune  that  can  befall  you." 

"  Do  you  know  her  ?" 

"  I  ?  No.  But  I  know  ...  I  know  what  / 
suifered.  Percy,  I  have  never  told  you  the  history  of 
my  early  life — and  I  rejoice  at  it ;  for  now  that  history 
may  serve  as  a  warning  to  you,  which  you  need.  Will 
you  listen  to  me  calmly  ?" 

"  Certainly.     You  pique  my  curiosity." 

"  I  shall  not  be  long ;  and  you  will  see  how  nearly 
it  concerns  you." 


jS  ranthorpp:. 


CHAPTER     VII. 

w^'nton's  story. 

With  that  low  cunning  which  in  fools  supplies, 
And  amply  too,  tlie  place  of  being  wise, 
Which  Nature,  kind,  indulgent  parent,  gave. 
To  qualify  the  blockhead  for  a  knave. 

Churchill. 

Thou  art  not  fair ;  I  view'd  thee  not  till  now — 
Thou  art  not  kind ;  till  now  I  knew  thee  not — 
And  now  the  rain  hath  beaten  off  thy  gilt, 
Thy  worthless  copper  shows  thee  counterfeit. 
It  grieves  me  not,  to  see  how  foul  thou  art ; 
But  mads  me,  that  I  ever  thought  thee  fair. 

Arden  of  Feversham. 

"  On  leaving  Cambridge,"  began  Wynton,  "  I  was, 
in  common  with  so  many  thousands  of  young  men,  a 
social  anomaly,  in  a  country  where  wealth  or  rank  are 
the  only  passports  to  society.  To  the  cultivation  and 
education  of  a  gendeman,  I  added  the  patrimony  of  a 
beggar,  and  the  prospects  of  an  adventurer, 

"  My  father  v/as  a  clergyman,  with  a  living  of  five 
hundred  a  year,  and  nine  children  to  absorb  it.  He 
pinched  himself,  to  give  me  a  college  education.  His 
pride  lay  in  my  talents;  and  to  give  them  a  fair  develop- 
ment, he  willingly  deprived  himself  of  every  comfort.  I 
was  sent  to  college\  I  gained  there  some  distinctions ; 
and  left  it  with  the  firm  conviction  that  I  was  to  make 
the  fortune  of  my  family. 

"  Filled  with  classic  lore,  and  minute  scholarship,  I 
went  to  London,  expecting  to  find  employment  and 
emolument  at  once.  You  may  measure  the  extent  of 
my  simplicity  by  that  one  fact.     My  dear  father  was, 


WYNTON'S    STORY.  79 

however,  equally  simple.  London,  the  great  mart  for 
talent  of  every  description,  seemed  merely  necessary  to 
visit,  and  '  somethmg  would  be  sure  to  turn  up.'  He 
recalled  all  the  illustrious  names  of  men  who  had  risen 
from  nothing,  —  forgetting  the  thousands  who  had' 
perished  in  the  struggle  !  We  repeated  all  the  common- 
places about  force  of  merit,  and  certainty  of  protection, 
and  doubted  not  but  that  I  should  soon  be  sought  out 
by  the  rich  and  powerful. 

"  Thus  confident ;  I  went  to  London ;  I  will  not 
detain  you  with  a  description  of  the  gradual  breaking 
up  of  my  illusions.  You  can  fancy  how  soon  it  was 
that  I  discovered  my  social  insignificance  in  that  vast 
centre  of  talents ;  how  soon  I  felt  the  insufficiency  of  a 
scholarship  equalled  by  hundreds,  and  surpassed  by 
scores ;  how  soon  I  felt  the  meagreness  of  that  knowl- 
edge which  had  hitherto  been  my  boast — the  knowledge 
of  books — compared  with  that  far  deeper  knowledge  of 
life,  with  which  I  saw  so  many  gifted.  The  young 
student  with  the  classics  at  his  fingers'  ends,  soon  finds 
himself  a  child  in  comparison  with  the  man  who  has 
lived,  and  reflected  on  his  experience. 

"  A  knowledge  of  the  sciences  is  comparatively  easy, 
and  may  be  acquired  by  very  ordinary  intellects. 
Though  it  requires  a  great  intellect  to  originate  pro- 
found views,  a  child  may  learn  them  when  originated, 
and  therefore  ordinary  intellects  can  acquire  consider- 
able knowledge  of  the  laws  of  nature;  but  a  knowledge 
of  life  is  the  result  of  abundant  experience  drawn  by  a 
reflective  mind.  The  labors  of  philosophers,  extending 
through  centuries  of  observation  and  expenment,  are 
amassed  in  books.  There  the  student  may  find  them, 
question  them,  and  having  furnished  himself  with  their 


60  RANTHORPE. 

results,  begin  the  study  of  nature,  rich  in  the  experience 
of  ages.  Not  so  the  student  of  mankind.  He  is  ahiiost 
like  a  philosopher  who  should  set  to  work  to  observe 
phenomena,  without  having  studied  the  results  obtained 
by  others.  No  amount  of  experience  is  stored  up  in 
books  for  him  to  consult.  He  must  study  the  living 
subject.  He  must  draw  his  own  conclusions.  The 
works  of  poets  and  moralists,  indeed,  contain  the  results 
of  great  experience ;  but  unfortunately  these  are  of 
little  help ;  we  are  unable  to  appreciate  them  till  we 
ourselves  have  discovered  the  same  truths.  A  man 
shall  read  Shakspeare  for  thirty  years,  and  at  the  end  of 
that  period  shall  detect  truths  of  human  nature,  which- 
escaped  him  before ;  and  why  ? — because  he  himself, 
not  having  discovered  them  before,  could  not  recognize 
them  when  he  saw  them  written.  From  poets,  we  learn 
confirmations  of  our  views — never  the  views  of  human 
nature  themselves. 

"  The  knowledge  of  life  is  marvellously  complex ;  its 
materials  are  drawn  from  past  experience,  present  ob- 
servation, and  prevision  of  the  future.  In  youth,  we  are 
subject  to  deceptions  as  much  from  the  boundless  con- 
fidence of  hope,  as  from  the  dazzling  novelty  of  our 
impressions.  We  have  no  standard  to  test  things  by. 
We  have  no  experience  to  correct  the  rashness  of  our 
wishes,  and  the  immaturity  of  our  judgment.  In  youth, 
we  can  seldom  judge  men  aright;  for  to  judge  men 
aright,  we  require  to  be  arrived  at  that  age  when  expe- 
rience is  weighty  enough  to  balance  the  inventive 
nature  of  hope,  and  capable  of  analyzing  all  impres- 
sions in  the  crucible  of  the  understanding.  In  truth,  a 
knowledge  of  men  is  always  dififtcult  and  rarely  certain, 
for  men  themselves  are  ever  vacillating  between  new 


wynton's  story.  8 1 

ideas  and  ancient  prejudices;  between  their  interests 
and  passions. 

"  In  London  I  found  myself  a  child.  I  might  be 
great  at  Cambridge — honored  amongst  silk  gowns — 
immortal  amongst  gerunds — but  in  London  I  was  a 
cypher.  I  could  find  no  employment.  I  knew  no  one 
in  the  world  of  letters.  I  had  done  nothing  to  justify 
my  pretensions.  I  was  in  that  crowded  city,  anxious 
to  get  my  bread  by  honest  employment  of  my  talents ; 
and  found  thousands  eager  in  the  same  pursuit.  Ah  I 
how  I  longed  to  get  an  opening ! 

"  I  sent  articles,  tales,  and  poems  to  every  magazine 
then  published.  I  lived  month  after  month  upon  the 
delicious  cozenage  of  hope  that  one  of  the  editors  would 
at  last  have  taste  and  judgment  enough  to  recognize  an 
unknown  genius.  You  know  enough  of  literature  to 
judge  what  success  I  met  with.  I  clung  to  my  hopes 
tenaciously ;  but  at  length,  in  despair,  I  accepted  a  situ- 
ation as  private  tutor  in  a  rich  Gloucestershire  family. 

"  To  this,  then,  after  a  few  months  of  glorious  illu- 
sion and  painful  humiliation,  had  my  boasted  talents 
brought  me!  To  rust  my  energies,  to  waste  the  ver- 
dure of  my  life  in  a  country  house,  instructing  a  heavy 
youth. 

"  Yet  my  father  never  lost  courage.  He  could  not 
renounce  his  illusions.  He  could  not  admit  his  en-or  of 
judgment.  To  have  admitted  it  would  have  been  to 
admit  that  he  had  wronged  his  other  children  by  that 
error.  He  was  forced  to  hope.  I  should  distinguish 
myself  even  as  a  tutor !  Many  a  man  had  started  from 
a  less  favorable  point ;  with  my  talents  I  was  sure  to 
excite  general  admiration  and  respect.  I  did  so.  I  was 
the  *  hon  '  of  the  county.    You  know  how  little  it  would 

6 


82  RANTHORPE. 

require  to  be  the  wonder  of  a  county,  so  that  I  need 
affect  no  modesty  on  that  point. 

'•  I  was  a  wit,  a  scholar,  and  a  gentleman :  so  said 
the  county.  The  clergymen  declared  my  scholarship 
considerable;  and  in  return  I  admired  their  sermons. 
The  men  thought  me  a  wit  and  a  philosopher;  and  the 
women  adored  my  verses.  I  was  treated  as  an  honored 
guest,  not  as  a  tutor.  My  society  was  sought.  I  was 
intoxicated  with  my  success,  and  began  again  to  hope. 

"  You  may  here,  my  dear  Ranthorpe,  trace  the 
generic  resemblance  of  our  fates;  what  you  were  in 
London  society,  I  was  in  Gloucestershire.  Both  of  us 
exalted  beyond  our  merits,  and  both  of  us  nourished  in 
presumptuous  thoughts.  But  now  attend  !  and  you  will 
see  a  still  closer  resemblance  to  your  history. 

''The  sister  of  my  pupil  was  then  eighteen;  and  I 
fell  in  love  with  her.  It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to 
paint  her  portrait,  because  I  have  since  seen  how  false 
was  my  view  of  her;  and  if  I  were  to  paint  it  according 
to  my  present  knowledge,  you  would  never  beUeve  in 
the  sincerity  of  my  affection  for  her.  Let  me  therefore 
rather  say  that,  to  my  inexperienced  eyes,  she  was  all 
that  she  affected  to  be,  and  as  good  as  she  was  beautiful. 

"It  was  a  mad  thought,  in  such  a  country  as  Eng- 
land, for  a  poor  tutor  to  aspire  to  the  only  daughter  of 
a  wealthy  gentleman ;  but  what  will  not  youth  and  pas- 
sion dare  ?  What  anomalies  will  they  not  reconcile  in 
fiery  imagination  ?  I  lo\'ed  Fanny,  and  I  never  doubted 
that  her  father  would  consent  to  our  union,  ///  /imc.  I 
loved  her  to  distraction,  and  it  was  not  long  before  I 
/'//<??<:/  she  had  remarked  my  passion.  Would  she  return 
it  ?     That  was  my  perplexity. 

'•  Return  it  she  did,  as  far  as  in  her  nature  lav.    Flat- 


wynton's  story.  S^ 

tered  by  the  passion  she  had  excited,  it  was  evident  to 
me  that  she  returned  it  as  much  out  of  vanity  as  real 
affection ;  but  I  was  too  enamored,  and  too  young  to 
be  scrupulous  as  to  the  means  whereby  I  gained  her 
love.  She  was  deplorably  ignorant;  all  education 
seemed  useless  with  her;  she  had  quickness,  but  could 
never  learn.  This  want  of  intellect  shocked  me  at  first ; 
but  she  seemed  so  angelical  in  disposition,  her  senti- 
ments were  so  noble,  her  sympathy  so  active,  and  her 
person  so  beautiful,  that  I  soon  forgot  her  poverty  of 
brain.  Alas !  I  loved  her  too  well  to  detect  the  faults 
so  glaring  to  others. 

"  And  then,  in  spite  of  her  dulness  of  comprehen- 
sion, she  was  the  most  consummate  flatterer.  Small  as 
was  her  intellect,  she  seemed  to  have  a  more  than  ani- 
mal quickness  of  instinct  in  detecting  the  foibles  of 
those  around  her;  and  utterly  destitute  of  convictions  or 
earnestness,  she  could  with  equal  facility  adopt  any 
opinion,  any  sentiment,  or  any  manner  that  would  fit 
the  opinion,  sentiment,  or  manner  of  the  person  she  was 
conversing  with.  She  was  like  the  chameleon  reflecting 
the  color  of  every  tree  under  which  it  reposes;  she 
passed  from  the  most  contradictory  ideas,  and  antago- 
nistical  sympathies,  in  the  same  evening — the  same 
hour — with  unparalleled  ease.  She  flattered  everybody, 
and  cared  for  none.  For  none — no,  not  even  tor  me ; 
beyond  the  gratification  of  her  vanity,  which  was 
pleased  with  the  idea  of  the  cleverest  man  in  the 
county  being  her  slave.  I  did  not  know  this  at  that 
time — I  did  not  suspect  it.  She  was  all  enthusiasm, 
tenderness,  and  melancholy  grace;  the  tears  would 
come  into  her  eyes  if  I  recited  verses  to  her,  or  if  I 
complained   of  a  headache.     She   seemed   '  wrapt   in 

6  * 


84  RA2>JTH0RPE. 

adoration.'  I  believed  all  this;  the  fumes  of  vanity 
intoxicated  me — delirious  presumption  distorted  my 
judgment. 

"  Ah !  those  were  days  of  rapture  and  torture,  such 
as  I  have  never  since  experienced.  Glorious  visions  of 
future  happiness  and  greatness  floated  before  my  eyes. 
Intoxicating  hopes  and  burning  passions  were  the  will- 
o'-wisps  that  led  my  heart  astray.  And  yet  amidst 
these  raptures  were  the  poignant  doubts  which  my 
social  position  generated;  the  fears  that  I  v/as  indul- 
ging in  a  dream  from  which  I  soon  must  waken! 

"  These  fears  became  at  last  realities.  A  wealthy 
nobleman  came  to  pass  a  few  months  at  the  house 
where  I  was  tutor.  He  was  evidently  struck  with 
Fanny,  and  she  was  as  willing  as  usual  to  listen  to  his 
flatteries.  The  coquette !  how  bitterly  I  cursed  the 
vanity  which  could  thus  torture  another's  heart,  as  she 
knew  she  tortured  mine.  I  reproached  her  with  it.  She 
wept — affected  innocence — said  it  was  only  her  ma;i- 
ner — and  that  she  meant  nothing — vowed  that  she 
loved  none  but  me.    I  was  but  too  willing  to  believe  her  ■ 

"All  rapture  now  had  fled,  and  grim  despair  seemed 
rooted  in  its  place.  Perpetual  quarrels  when  alone; 
perpetual  jealousy  when  in  company :  this  was  my  life. 
I  could  not  be  blinded  to  the  fact  that  she  encouraged 
her  admirer;  but,  at  the  same  time,  I  was  too  young  to 
understand  how  she  could  reconcile  it  to  her  reiterated 
assurances  of  undying  affection  for  me. 

"The  mystery  became  greater  when  the  nobleman 
proposed,  and  was  accepted!  What!  said  I  to  myself 
actually  accept  him,  and  only  last  night  she  swore  that  I 
alone  should  ever  have  her  love !  Great  God !  is  she  a 
demon,  or  is  she  an  idiot  ? 


wynixjn's  srom-.  85 

"  "Wc  had  a  violent  altercation  directly  we  were  left 
alone.  I  heaped  the  bitterest  reproaches  upon  her, 
which  she  received  with  forced  playfulness.  She  per- 
sisted in  vowing  unalterable  love  for  me;  and  declared 
that  she  had  only  accepted  his  proposal  out  of  policy — 
her  father  being  so  bent  on  it  that  she  feared  her  refusal 
might  have  ruined  our  prospects. 

"  '  But  you  will  marry  him  ?'  I  exclaimed. 

"'I  will  marry  none  but  you,'  she  repHed;  'you 
have  my  heart,  you  alone  shall  have  my  hand.' 

'''But  how?' 

'"Leave  all  to  me.  You  look  incredulous?  Jf'/faf 
motive  can  I  have  in  deceiving  you?' 

"'None,'  I  rephed,  sorrowfully;  for  I  had  often 
asked  myself  the  same  question,  and  could  never  devise 
an  answer. 

"  Her  caresses  and  promises  dispelled  my  fears 
during  the  rest  of  the  interview,  but  I  became  sombre 
and  sceptical  immediately  afterwards.  I  was  ignorant 
enough  of  human  life  and  human  motives ;  my  ideas  of 
them  had  been  gathered  from  poetry  and  novels  (those 
falsifiers  of  nature,  the  more  pernicious  because  they 
pretend  to  truth),  and  I  had  familiarized  myself  with 
romantic  adventures,  the  audacity  of  love,  and  the 
escapes  of  brides  from  detested  unions  even  at  the  foot 
of  the  altar.  I  did  not  see  how  these  were  to  operate 
in  my  favor;  but  Fanny  seemed  so  confident  that  I 
trusted  blindly  to  her  ingenuity. 

"  Thus  fretful  and  sophisticating,  1  passed  the  time 
allowed  for  the  marriage  preparations.  I  saw  her  trous- 
seau^ sometimes  with  a  grim  irony,  sometimes  with  a  sad 
foreboding,  according  to  the  view  I  took  of  the  proba- 
bility of  her  being  true  or  false  to  me.     At  length  the 


S6  RANTHORPE. 

last  week  arrived,  and  Fanny  seemed  as  gay  and  bust- 
ling as  any  bride  could  be.  I  began  to  suspect  that  she 
was  deceiving  me,  and  would  continue  to  do  so  to  the 
very  day.  The  thrilling  horror  of  this  thought  almost 
maddened  me.  I  rushed  forth  into  the  park  and  wan- 
dered distractedly  about.  Desperate  thoughts,  and  vio- 
lent plans,  crossed  and  recrossed  my  brain;  and  I  re- 
turned to  the  house  so  exhausted  with  emotion,  that 
they  all  remarked  my  sickly  appearance.  I  pleaded 
illness,  and  went  up  to  my  own  room,  where  I  dined  by 
myself  That  evening  the  whole  party  were  going  to  a 
ball,  given  by  one  of  their  neighbors.  I  rejoiced  in  the 
idea  of  being  left  alone. 

"To  quench  the  burning  flame  of  jealousy  which  was 
devouring  me — to  deaden  the  conviction  that  I  had 
wasted  myself  on  a  coquette — to  stupify  the  wounded 
pride  revolting  at  the  thought  of  my  having  been  made 
a  dupe — I  drank  largely  of  the  generous  claret.  I  re- 
member with  horrible  distinctness  my  sensations :  they 
were  a  mixture  of  keen  anguish  and  heavy  insensibility; 
of  vivid  conception  and  sottish  brutality ;  the  external 
universe  seemed  pressing  upon  me  with  an  intolerable 
weight;  and  the  vigorous  mind  seemed  struggHng  to 
free  itself  from  the  oppression.  I  was  not  drunk,  but 
besotted.  Gross  and  brutal  feelings  seemed  urging  me 
to  some  desperate  act. 

"  About  half-past  ten  I  rose  from  my  seat  and  left 
my  room.  The  house  was  empty,  and  I  wandered 
vacantly  through  the  rooms,  a  sort  of  like-in -death.  I 
know  not  from  what  motive,  but  I  soon  found  myself  in 
Fanny's  bedroom.  This  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of 
quieting  influence  over  me;  my  ideas  became  more 
vivid  and  less  fantastic,  less  confused.     It  was  her  bed- 


wvnton's  storv.  87 

room !  I  had  never  crossed  the  threshold  before,  and 
now  I  was  seated  in  her  very  chair;  turning  over  her 
combs  and  brushes,  her  trinkets,  and  scent-bottles, 
touching  the  counterpane  of  her  bed;  kissing  the  cur- 
tains; looking  in  her  glass;  and  picturing  her  also  in 
the  room ! 

"  While  thus  yielding  to  delicious  reveries  I  heard 
footsteps  approaching.  Alarmed  at  the  idea  of  being 
detected  there,  I  hid  myself  behind  the  ample  curtains 
of  the  bed.  The  house-maid  entered,  finished  her  work 
without  detecting  me,  and  left  the  room. 

"  This  put  strange  thoughts  into  my  head.  I  exam- 
ined the  position  of  the  bed  and  tl-^  ampHtude  of  the 
curtains,  and  from  every  part  of  the  room  \iewed  the 
capabilities  of  the  hiding-place ;  and  having  satisfied 
myself  on  that  score,  I  determined  to  await  Fanny's 
arrival. 

" '  I  will  endure  this  suspense  no  longer,'  said  I, 
*  this  night  shall  decide  my  fate.' 

"  The  time  dragged  heavily  onAvards  after  this  reso- 
lution, but  I  grew  more  and  more  confirmed  in  it,  as 
the  time  for  its  execution  approached.  The  fumes  of 
the  wine  had  not  yet  gone  oft,  but  they  did  not  stupify 
me  so  much  as  they  had  done.  My  head  seemed  as  if 
bound  with  a  wreath  of  burning  iron ;  the  blood  burnt 
along  my  veins ;  a  quenchless  thirst  scorched  my  palate ; 
and  a  dull,  dogged  sense  of  resolution  filled  my  mind. 
When  the  party  returned  home,  I  felt  capable  of  any 
crime. 

"  Fanny  came  up  to  bed,  chattering  incessantly  to 
her  obsequious  maid.  I  could  not  see  her,  but  I  recog- 
nized in  her  voice  and  manner  an  excitement  produced 
by  the  flatteries  and  frivolities  she  had  been  enjoying.    I 


88  RANTHORPE. 

heard  her  teil^^her  maid  all  the  persons  she  had  danced 
with,  all  the  dresses  she  had  admired,  or  laughed  at, 
and  all  the  inanities  of  which  balls  are  composed. 

"  At  length,  her  maid  finished  her  hair,  placed  every- 
thing ready,  and  departed.  I  no  sooner  heard  the  door 
shut,  than  1  peeped  cautiously  out  and  saw  Fanny  turn- 
ing over  some  letters — they  were  mine ! 

"  In  spite  of  my  half-intoxication,  and  the  dogged 
resolution  it  inspired  in  me,  I  had  not  courage  to  step 
forward;  a  fire  burnt  up  my  veins,  but  a  cold  perspira- 
tion covered  my  body.  I  watched  in  breathless  silence, 
till  my  situation  became  insupportable,  and  I  determined 
to  venture  forth.  The  house  was  silent,  everyone  was 
abed,  and,  probably,  after  the  fatigue,  sound  asleep ;  so 
I  murmured  '  Fanny,'  in  a  gentle  tone.  She  started  ; 
and  again  pronouncing  her  name,  with  a  caution  to  her 
not  to  be  frightened,  I  stepped  forth. 

"She  was  surprised,  terrified,  and  indignant;  and 
ordered  me  to  quit  the  room  instantly,  or  she  would 
alarm  the  house. 

"'Alarm  the  house?'  I  replied,  brutally,  'and  let 
your  future  husband  know  why  I  am  here. — This  is  folly! 
Let  us  be  calm  and  rational.  You,  alone,  can  suffer 
from  any  discovery.  You  dare  not  alarm  the  house : 
you  know  you  dare  not.' 

"  '  That  makes  you  courageous.' 

'"No;  it  makes  me  resolved.  Therefore,  sit  quiet, 
and  listen  to  me.  I  am  to  be  trifled  with  no  longer. 
Tell  me  you  do  not  love  me,  and  then — * 

"  '  What  then  ?  '  she  said,  haughtily. 

'"Why,  I  may  kill  you  for  your  falsehood  !  Do  not 
be  terrified — I  know  not  what  I  am  saying;  but  release 
me  from  this  agony  of  supense ;  do  you  love  me  ?  ' 


wvntojn's  story.  89 

*• '  You  know  I  do,'  she  answered,  reproachfully. 

*• '  How  can  I  know  it,  when  I  see  the  preparations 
for  your  marriage  with  another? — preparations,  which 
you  take  as  much  apparent  delight  in  as  the  happiest  of 
brides.     You  do  not  answer  ? — Beware,  oh !  beware  ! ' 

"  '  You  terrify  me  so  that  I  have  a  good  mind  to 
punish  you,  by  not  telling  you  my  object  in  appearing  a 
liappy  bride.' 

"  I  was  softened  in  an  instant.  I  wanted  an  excuse 
for  her,  and  she  was  going  to  furnish  it.  I  entreated 
her  to  tell  me  what  she  meant. 

"  *  Why,  as  you  know,  my  father  would  take  no 
denial  in  private.  He  wishes  the  match;  and,  in  his 
house,  his  wish  is  law.  But  he  is  very  anxious  to  make 
a  good  figure  in  the  eye  of  the  world.  Now,  at  the 
wedding,  there  will  be  a  large  assembly  of  our  relations 
and  friends,  and  if  before  them  all  I  declare  that  my 
affections  are  another's,  my  father  will  not  dare  to  force 
me;  and  to  prevent  his  forcing  me,  I  intend  at  the 
altar  saying,  '  No.'  This  will  create  grand  scandal ;  but 
the  magnitude  of  it  will  be  our  safety.  My  hand  will 
never  be  forced,  when  they  see  how  determined  I  am.' 

"  '  But  why  not  elope  ?' 

"  *  For  your  sake.  I  am  under  age.  You  would 
be  accused  of  abduction.  No:  my  father  shall  give 
me  to  you.' 

"  I  allowed  myself  to  be  convinced ;  and  kissing  her 
on  the  eyes,  I  crept  to  my  own  room. 

"  The  marriage  bells  were  pealing ;  the  day  was 
bright  and  sunny.  The  bells  seemed  to  mock  me :  I 
thought  I  could  distinguish  voices  in  them.  The  day 
was  hideously  glaring :  I  thought  it  also  a  mockery  of 
my  inward  gloom.     I  had  horrible  misgivings,    Fanny's 


90  RANTHORPE. 

plan  was  wild  and  romantic.  I  had  read  of  such  things, 
and  they  seemed  probable;  but  when  the  plan  was 
about  to  be  acted^  it  seemed  impossible.  Obedient  to 
her  wish,  I  did  not  attend  the  ceremony.  But  I  could 
not  forbear  skulking  about  the  outside  of  the  church, 
with  anxious  ears  awaiting  some  confusion  to  betoken 
an  interruption  of  the  ceremony.  I  expected  every 
minute  to  see  the  doors  open  and  people  rush  out. 

"  All  was  silent ;  painfully  silent. 

''  I  crept  into  into  the  church,  unable  to  endure  the 
suspense,  and  felt  the  world  turn  giddily  round  me,  as  I 
saw  the  bridegroom  in  the  act  of  passing  the  ring  on 
the  finger  of  his  radiant  bride.  I  staggered  from  the 
church.  The  soft  breeze  revived  me  for  an  instant.  I 
wandered  on,  brooding  thoughts  of  vengeance.  I  felt  a 
sudden  sickness  and  a  film  overspread  my  eyes.  I  sank 
senseless  on  the  grass. 

"  When  I  recovered,  the  sun  was  pouring  his  in- 
tolerable rays  upon  me ;  the  birds  were  twittering  in  the 
trees;  the  blue  sky  above  me  was  dotted  with  lazy 
clouds.     For  a  moment  I  knew  not  where  I  was. 

"  The  pealing  bells  awakened  me  to  consciousness. 

*'  I  returned  home  as  the  '  happy  pair '  drove  from 
the  door,  upon  their  marriage  tour.  The  drama  had 
ended;  my  deception  was  complete;  and  Fanny  became 
Lady  Wilmington T 

"  Lady  Wilmington !"  exclaimed  the  astonished  Ran- 
thorpe. 

"  Yes,  Lady  Wilmington,"  bitterly  repeated  Wynton. 
"  And  now  you  see  the  closeness  of  our  fates.  What 
Fanny  was,  her  daughter  is — a  coquette.  She  plays 
with  you,  as  her  mother  played  with  me.  You  may 
fancy  she  loves  you ;  perhaps  she  does,  but  that  will  not 


"wynton's  story.  91 

prevent  her  breaking  your  heart,  for  her  love  will  not  be 
a  feather's  weight  upon  her  conscience ! " 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  each  was  absorbed 
in  his  thoughts  and  recollections.  Wynton  was  moved 
with  the  ripping  open  of  old  wounds ;  and  Ranthorpe 
was  astonished  at  the  wondrous  history,  and  its  con- 
nection with  his  own. 

"  You  have  made  me  sadder,"  said  he,  "  from  the 
sufferings  you  have  endured,  and  from  the  hideous 
picture  you  have  drawn  of  a  woman  whom  I  always 
thought  a  negative  kind  of  being,  without  force  of 
character  enough  to  be  bad — much  less  to  be  the 
demon  you  have  drawn." 

"  Yet  she  is  not  a  demon,"  replied  Wynton ;  "  be- 
lieve me  she  is  a  woman,  and  a  not  uncommon  woman. 
When  I  was  your  age  I  thought  as  you  do.  Experience, 
and  long  studies  of  moral  anatomy,  have  convinced  me 
of  my  error.  Calm  now,  I  can  read  her  character  in  its 
true  light.     Shall  I  read  it  aloud  ?" 

"  Do  so — but  no  paradoxes  I  beg!" 

"  None  that  I  can  help.  Well,  then,  Fanny  was 
simply  and  truly  a  victim  of  intense  egotism  with  no  in- 
tellect to  direct  it;  weak,  vacillating,  and  unprincipled, 
she  had  no  malignity,  she  had  not  force  of  character  for 
any  villany  that  did  not  spring  from  the  negative  vice  of 
want  of  principle.  Self  was  her  only  consideration,  and 
she  was  reckless  what  she  sacrificed  to  it.  She  v/as 
gratified  by  my  love  in  many  ways.  By  her  vanity  she 
lived;  to  gratify  it  was,  therefore,  to  give  her  a  vivid 
feeling  of  her  existence.  Hence  her  delight  in  my 
passion. 

"  She  could  not  break  off  our  intercourse  when  once 
her  future  husband  had  dazzled  her  with  the  prospect  of 


92  RANTHORPE. 

a  wealthy  '  establishment.'  I  say  she  could  not,  and 
for  these  reasons : 

"  She  would  never  sacrifice  a  gratification  merely  at 
the  expense  of  another's  suffering ;  and  my  love  was.  a 
gratification,  and  I  was  easily  deceived. 

"  She  could  not  bear  to  be  thought  ill  of,  by  any 
person,  no  matter  by  whom ;  it  tortured  her.  She  lived 
as  I  said  by  her  vanity,  and  this  vanity  was  inordinate ; 
the  praise  of  the  meanest  was  food  to  her;  and  hence 
the  pliancy  with  which  she  suited  herself  to  every  body's 
way  of  thinking. 

"  But  if  to  be  thought  ill  of,  even  by  a  servant,  was 
a  pang  to  her,  what  would  she  have  suffered  if  the  man 
who  then  adored  her  were  to  turn  his  adoration  to  con- 
tempt ?  How  much  pleasanter  to  prolong  that  adora- 
tion till  the  last  minute ! 

"  As  she  never  for  an  instant  contemplated  becom- 
ing my  wife,  she  knew  that  I  must  detect  her  some  day; 
all  her  art  was  required  to  delay  that  moment  until  she 
should  see  me  no  more. 

"  Now,  in  supposing  that  I  have  read  aright  the 
motives  of  her  conduct — stripped  of  the  palliations  and 
sophistications  of  her  own  conscience — we  have,  as  a 
result,  the  portrait  of  a  very  unprincipled  ivoman,  sacri- 
ficing every  thing  to  her  intense  egotism;  but  no  demon. 
A  demon,  in  our  conception  the  incarnation  of  malig- 
nity, is  not  so  odious  as  the  incarnation  of  egotism. 
Malignity  is  respectable  in  comparison ;  there  is  force 
and  energy  in  it ;  there  is  a  defiance,  and  a  power  which 
extorts  sympathy  from  us.  As  the  highwayman  is  less 
contemptible  than  the  pick-pocket,  so  is  malignity  less 
odious  than  egotism.  The  cruelty  of  egotism  is  not 
less  than  that  of  pure  malignity;  but  the  motive  is  more 


wynton's  story.  93 

contemptible.  Satan  is  grand,  terrible,  sublime;  lago  is 
utterly  despicable.  Moldch  is  lovable  in  comparison 
with  Blifil. 

"  Fanny  was  no  demon,  but  an  egotist;  this  explains 
her  actions.  Wherever  you  see  intense  egotism,  you 
see  more  or  less  want  of  moral  principle;  for  whatever 
principle  the  egotist  exhibits,  is  only  such  as  will  keep 
him  from  the  bar  of  justice  or  of  public  opinion.  His 
real  standard  is  not  a  moral,  but  a  purely  selfish  one. 
Wherever  you  see  a  want  of  moral  principle  arising 
from  a  weakness  of  character  (more  than  from  defiance 
of  society,  or  misdirected  energy),  there  you  will  be  sure 
to  find  a  being  capable  of  acts  similar  to  those  of  the 
miserable  girl  we  speak  of. 

"  Now,"  added  Wynton,  "  tell  me  whether  my  story 
has  been  of  any  use  to  you,  Percy  ?" 

*"  It  has,  indeed,"  said  Ranthorpe,  mournfully;  ''you 
have  saved  me  from  destruction." 


94 


RANTHORPE. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

POOR    ISOLA. 

Je  pense  en  vous  et  au  fallacieux 
Enfant  Amour,  qui  par  trop  sottement 
A  fait  mon  coeur  aymer  trop  haultement; 
Si  haultement  helas  !  que  de  ma  peine 
N'ose  espdrer  un  brin  d'alldgement. 

Clement  Marot. 

You  held  your  course  without  remorse 
To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
And  last  you  fixed  a  vacant  stare, 
And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Tennyson. 

My  ears 
Receive,  in  hearing  this,  all  deadly  charms. 
Powerful  to  make  men  wretched. 

Massingek.- 

Wynton's  Story  had  certainly  made  Ranthorpe  very 
unhappy;  but  it  had  not  cured  him,  it  had  not  con- 
vinced him.  This  is  one  of  the  sad  conditions  of  Hfe, 
that  experience  is  not  transmissible.  No  man  can  learn 
from  the  sufferings  of  another:  he  must  suffer  himself; 
each  must  bear  his  own  burden. 

The  reader  will  not  wonder,  therefore,  if,  the  first 
time  Ranthorpe  saw  Florence,  after  Wynton  had  dis- 
tressed him  with  his  story,  all  the  doubts  which  that 
story  had  aroused  were  at  once  dispelled.  One  quad- 
rille, one  tender  smile,  sufl[iced  to  make  him  scorn  the 
idea  of  Florence  being  at  all  like  her  mother.  The 
more  he  thought  of  Lady  Wilmington,  and  compared 
her  with  Florence,  the  more  was  he  struck  with  the  dif- 
ferences ;  and  they  were  really  many  and  important. 
Lover  like,  he  only  saw  the  best  side  of  his  mistress — 


POOR   ISOLA.  95 

he  only  perceived  the  differences  between  her  and  her 
mother,  without  also  noting  the  resemblances. 

In  truth,  he  was  in  such  an  unhealthy  state  of  irrita- 
tion, intoxication,  piqued  will,  and  fascinated  senses, 
that  his  mind  could  not  have  fairly  apprehended  the 
truth,  however  clearly  it  might  have  been  placed  before 
him.  He  yielded  himself  up  to  the  charm  of  being  de- 
ceived, and  would  have  thanked  no  one  for  undeceiving 
him. 

Wynton  grieved  to  see  the  little  influence  he  had 
exercised ;  reproached  him  gently  with  it ;  but  Ran- 
thorpe  had  only  one  answer — Florence  is  not  at  all  like 
her  mother. 

Wynton  rather  angrily  retorted :  "  Declare  your 
love,  then,  and  try  her." 

"  I  will,"  was  the  haughty  reply. 

The  next  day  he  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room 
with  Florence. 

"  You  look  ill,"  she  said,  with  feigned  anxiety. 

"  I  am  unhappy." 

"  Oh,  if  it's  only  that,"  she  said,  relapsing  into  her 

usual  playful  manner,  "  I  have  no  pity Poets, 

you  know,  must  be  unhappy,  to  make  the  world  believe 
in  their  poems." 

"  That,  perhaps,  is  the  reason,"  he  said,  somewhat 
bitterly,  "  why  the  world  ill-treats  poets.  It  fears  we 
may  not  have  cause  enough  to  weep,  and  so  heaps 
scorn,  envy,  and  neglect  upon  our  sorrowing  heads. 
We  are  the  singing  birds  whose  eyes  men  put  out,  to  give 
more  touching  plaintiveness  to  our  song." 

''''Ah  (a  /  vous  allez  done  faire  le  Byron  /" 

"  I  am  serious." 

"AVhat,_)W/  complain  of  the  world?" 


96  RANTHORPE. 

**  I  complain  of  the  oneT 

"  Oh,  then  there  is  one I  thought  so  !     Now 

you    must   make    me   your   confidante She 

must  be  very  charming,  to  have  captivated  you ;  but 
still    more    hard-hearted    to    have   been   cruel  to   you. 

Voyons,  Monsieur  le  poete Who  is  la  belle  per- 

fide?'' 

"  Do  you  know  her  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  cannot  guess,"  she  answered,  with  an  air  of  ut- 
ter unsuspiciousness. 

"  Can  you  not  read  the  feelings  written  o'er  the  face? 
Can  you  mistake  the  eyes  ?" 

No  one  could  have  mistaken  his  eyes,  or  the  tone  of 
his  voice,  or  his  manner ;  but  the  persistent  blindness  of 
a  coquette  is  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  race. 
Florence  replied — 

"  Who  could  not  mistake  eyes  ?  They  are  such  de- 
ceitful things  !  Then,  too,  one  never  knows  when  you 
poets  are  in  earnest — " 

"  Are  there  not,"  he  replied,  passionately,  "  looks 
which  utter  what  the  faltering  lips  recoil  from  ?  Are 
there  not  tones  which  pierce  the  husk  of  conversation, 
giving  a  meaning  to  unmeaning  words  ?  Is  there  not 
the  fret — the  anxiety — the  lever — the  jealousy — the 
flushed  cheek  and  eager  eye,  to  mark  the  true  love  from 
the  feigned  ?" 

"  Yes — but  you  men  !     Really  are  such   creatures !" 

"  Dare  I  proceed  ?" 

"  Assez — brisons  la-dessus  '  You  have  been  elo- 
quent enough; — and  eloquence  is  dangerous." 

"  You — understand  me — then  ?" 

"  Perhaps — "  Then,  feeling  that  she  had  got  to 
the  uttermost  limit,  and  that  it  was  necessary  to  change 


POOR    ISOLA. 


97 


the  subject  before  it  went  further,  she  added,  carelessly, 
"  Have  you  seen  the  *  Puritani  ?'  Delicious,  isn't  it  ? 
Bellini  is  such  a  love  of  a  composer !" 

"  Pray  do  not  trifle  with  me.  Answer  me,  dear  Miss 
Wilmington  ;  do  you — do  you  understand  me  ?" 

''  Allofis,  pas  de  sentiment  J — I  hate  it. — Don't  be 
theatrical,  mio  caro poeta.     Let  us  change  the  subject.'* 

Ranthorpe,  stung  by  her  manner,  passionately  re- 
plied, "  Change  the  subject — I  cannot  change  it !  It 
haunts  me  like  a  dream. — It  is  all  I  ever  think  of — My 
existence  is  bound  up  in  it !" 

'^  You  forget  yourself,"  she  answered,  rather 
haughtily ; — somewhat  uneasy  at  the  declaration  she 
had  drawn  forth. 

At  this  moment  Isola  was  coming  up  the  stairs,  to 
seek  a  book  in  the  drawing-room  for  Lady  Theresa ; 
and  hearing  Ranthorpe's  voice,  in  tones  she  knew  too 
well,  her  footsteps  were  arrested  at  the  threshold,  and 
unconsciously  she  became  a  listener. 

"  Forget  myself !"  replied  he,  bitterly.  "Yes — that 
is  the  word — that  is  my  reward  !  I  cannot  help  it ! — 
My  heart  is  at  your  feet,  trample  on  it,  Florence — 
trample  on  it,  and  crush  out  every  feeling — or  breathe 
into  it  the  breath  of  new  and  vigorous  life  !  Florence, 
I  love  you !" 

"  Mr.  Ranthorpe !"  she  exclaimed,  rising  with 
feigned  astonishment. 

"  I  love  you — love  you  !"  he  fiercely  reiterated. 

A  low  and  stifled  scream  startled  them  both.  It  was 
followed  by  a  heavy  fall  on  the  ground.  They  looked, 
and  beheld  the  senseless  form  of  the  broken-hearted 
Isola. 

''  O  God !  O  God !  O  God !"  exclaimed  Ranthorpe, 
7 


98  RANTHORPE. 

hiding  his  face  between  his  hands,  agonized  at  the  sight 
of  his  wrong. 

"  Miss  Churchill  has  fainted — ring  the  bell,"  said 
Florence. 

"  Fainted  !"  he  replied,  in  a  hollow  tone — "  She  is 
dead  !  dead — and  I  have  kiUed  her  ! — Said  I  not  that 
my  heart  was  at  your  feet  ?  There  it  is,"  pointing  to 
Isola,  "  there  !  I  have  sacrificed  he7'  to  my  mad  passion 
— I  have  filled  my  soul  with  horror  and  remorse  to  gain 
a  smile  from  you. — And  now,  here,  over  her  corpse — 
here,  at  my  feet,  this  victim  of  my  love — here,  with  her 
between  us,  do  I  repeat  '  /  love  you  f — what  is  your 
answer  ? — You  are  silent !  You  love  me  not ! — You 
have  played  with  me ! — Behold,  at  your  feet,  your  deed  ! 
— O  God  !    O  God  !" 

He  rushed  out  of  the  house;  wandering  through 
the  streets,  with  the  prostrate  form  of  his  once-loved 
Isola  ever  before  his  eyes,  goading  him  to  madness. 

He  returned  home  weakened,  and  almost  deadened 
to  external  impressions,  while  internally  the  Eumenides 
goaded  him  to  despair.  His  first  act  was  to  write  to 
Isola,  imploring  forgiveness  ; — telling  her  that  the  last 
chord  that  had  bound  him  to  a  false  ambition  was 
snapped ; — and  that  he  had  seen  his  error. 

His  messenger  returned  with  the  information  that 
Miss  Churchill  had  left  Lady  Theresa,  and  no  one  knew 
whither  she  had  gone  ! 


BOOK      III. 

THE    UNSUCCESSFUL  AUTHOR. 

O,  my  blessing  ! 
I  feel  a  hand  of  mercy  lift  me  up 
Out  of  a  world  of  waters,  and  now  sets  me 
Upon  a  mountain,  where  the  sun  plays  most 
To  cheer  my  heart,  even  as  it  dries  my  limbs. 

Thomas  Middleton. — No  WifHke.a  Woman 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE  ARISTOCRACY   OF  INTELLECT. 

When  there  is  no  difference  in  men's  worths, 
Titles  are  jests. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

Jung  und  Alt,  Gross  und  Klein, 
Grasshches  Gelichter ! 
Niemand  will  ein  Schuster  sein, 
Tedermann  ein  Dichter  ! 

GOTHE. 

For  there  is  no  power  on  earth  which  setteth  up  a  throne  in  the 
spirits  and  souls  of  men,  and  in  their  cogitations,  imaginations,  opin- 
ions, and  beliefs,  but  knowledge  and  learning. 

Bacon. 

Ranthorpe  Stumbled  at  the  threshold  of  his  career. 
His  mistake  was  fatal,  though  common.  He  miscon- 
ceived his  own  position  in  the  world :  he  belonged  by 
nature  to  one  aristocracy,  and  he  aspired  to  the  other ; 
born  a  member  of  the  great  aristocracy  of  intellect,  he 
misconceived  his  rank,  and  yearned  for  recognition  and 
fellowship  in  the  great  aristocracy  of  birth. 

Let  me  explain. 

Birth  was  in  antique  times  the  ensign  of  command. 
Those  only  who  belonged  to  the  aristocracy  were  free. 
To  be  bom  under  a  certain  condition  was  to  be  a  things 
not  a  man  ;  it  was  to  be  a  slave,  progenitor  of  slaves ;  a 
slave,  with  no  hope  of  freedom,  but  from  the  master's 
caprice  or  avarice.  To  be  a  man — to  enjoy  man's  im- 
perious will  and  proud  prerogatives — it  was  necessary  to 
be  bom  free. 


I02  RANTHORPE. 

Birth  was  then  indeed  glorious ;  no  misfortune  could 
obscure  it ;  no  rivalry  could  equal  it ;  without  it,  men 
were  the  property,  the  goods  of  another.  To  be  a  slave 
was  to  be  branded,  even  in  enfranchisement,  with  con- 
tempt :  the  slave  might  be  freed,  but  he  could  not  with 
his  servitude  shake  off  the  stigma  of  his  birth.  He 
might,  in  corrupt  ages,  become  the  emperor  of  the 
world — but  not  even  the  imperial  purple  could  hide  the 
original  stain  ;  and  a  Diocletian,  a  Pertinax,  a  Probus, 
or  a  Vitellius,  never  escaped  that  bitter  reproach. 

Birth  was  all-important.  A  man  might  have  senses, 
apprehensions,  affections, — but  he  was  a  thing,  unless  he 
belonged  to  the  privileged  few.  No  wonder  that  the 
pride  and  exclusiveness  of  the  few  became  outrageous ! 

Things  have  changed  since  then.  Christianity,  by 
its  institutions,  no  less  than  by  its  doctrines,  abohshed 
the  great  distinction  of  races,  noble  and  servile.  Slaverj^, 
which  to  the  ^\^sest  and  humanest  of  the  ancients  seemed 
a  necessary  condition  of  society,  became  aboHshed.  In- 
dustry, in  the  hands  of  these  enfranchised  slaves,  became 
a  power.     The  people  was  created — society  was  changed. 

Yet  in  those  antique  times,  side  by  side  with  this 
most  haughty  aristocracy  of  birth,  arose  the  haughty 
aristocracy  of  mind.  Like  its  rival,  this,  too,  was  es- 
sentially oligarchical,  tyrannical,  and,  like  it,  was  also 
scrupulous  to  keep  the  profane  vulgar  from  its  circle. 
Philosophy  was  confined  to  a  few  teachers  and  their 
disciples ;  and  to  keep  its  secrets  from  the  world,  the 
Egyptian  priests  invented  their  hieroglyphics,  symbolical 
instructions,  and  mysterious  ceremonies. 

So  long  as  mind  was  the  vicegerent  of  religion,  so 
long  was  its  power,  even  over  birth,  acknowledged ;  but 
when  its  office  changed — extended — then  its  power  fell. 


THE    ARISTOCRACY    OF    INTELLECT.  IO3 

This  power  it  is  fast  regaining.  Mind  holds  the 
supremacy  once  held  by  rank,  though  not  so  exclusively. 

Mind,  so  jealous  when  it  first  felt  its  power,  that  it 
employed  every  machination  to  keep  that  power  in  the 
hands  of  the  few,  has  now,  because  for  the  first  time  it 
truly  recognizes  its  own  mission,  become,  instead  of  a 
waxen  taper  shining  in  a  cell,  a  glorious  sun  giving  the 
whole  world  light.  The  learned  languages  are  no 
longer  written ;  the  living  speech  utters  the  living 
thought ;  and  cheap  literature,  in  some  of  its  myriad 
channels,  conveys  that  thought  even  to  the  poorest  cot- 
tage. 

Learniiig  no  longer  rules  supreme,  but  must  give 
place  to  hiowledge  :  the  owl  has  become  an  eagle ! 

The  aristocracy  of  birth  is  not  the  figment  certain 
democrats  proclaim.  A  thorough-bred  hunter  is  not  a 
hack.  The  members  of  a  jealous  aristocracy  preserve 
their  social  preponderance,  not  only  by  their  fortunes, 
but  also  by  the  purity  of  their  race.  They  have  purer 
blood — more  beautiful  persons — greater  refipement  of 
manner.  These  things  have  their  influence,  because 
they  are  qualities,  not  accidents.  Your  true  nobleman 
remains  such,  through  every  misfortune. 

"  Ivicet  superbus  ambules  pecunia, 
Fortuna  ?20?i  mutat genus." 

Strip  your  banker-lord  of  his  wealth — and  where  is  his 
nobility  ? 

But  the  aristocracy  of  birth  is  no  longer  the  power 
which  it  was  formerly.  The  real  government  lies  in 
Intelligence.  ^^  Le  Roi  regne  et  ne  gouveme  pas''  To 
Intelligence  both  Rank  and  Wealth  must  bend  the  knee 
— and  do  bend  it. 


104  RANTHORPE. 

"  Si  on  a?ino7i(ait  M.  de  Monf??iorency  et  M.  de  Bal- 
zac dans  tm  saloji"  says  Jules  Janin  "  on  regarderait  M. 
de  BalzacT  Who  occupies  the  foremost  position  in  the 
world's  eye — the  lord  or  the  admired  author  ?  While 
the  most  potent  Marquis  of  Fiddle-faddle,  with  all  his 
untold  wealth  and  line  of  ancestry,  "  dies  and  makes  no 
sign  " — the  house,  the  room  where  the  author  lived,  the 
chair  wherein  he  sat,  or  the  desk  on  which  he  wrote, 
are  treasured  as  national  relics  unto  which  thousands  of 
pious  pilgrims  make  journeys  from  year  to  year ;  and 
libraries  are  full  of  "  Lives,"  "  Memoirs,"  correspon- 
dence, anecdotes,  and  criticisnis  of  this  one  man ;  no 
mention  being  made  of  my  Lord  Marquis.  The  haughty 
Due  de  St.  Simon  could  say  of  Voltaire,  "  that  is  the 
son  of  my  father's  notary' ;  "  yet  that  notary's  son  was 
the  most  potent  man  in  all  France — in  all  that  France 
had  produced  for  the  century ;  and  in  his  eighty-fourth 
year,  on  his  visit  to  the  capital,  was  received  like  some 
Julius  Caesar  in  his  triumph.  Rousseau  was  the  son  of 
a  watchmaker — D'x^lembert  was  picked  up  in  the 
streets — Burns  followed  the  plough.  Had  these  men  no 
nobility  ?     Were  they  not  of  the  aqiazEia  ? 

Whatever  future  changes  may  produce,  there  are  at 
the  present  day  two  potent  aristocracies,  both  swarming 
with  presumptuous  parvenus,  despicable  and  despised: 
parvenus  (let  it  never  be  forgotten)  of  intelligence  as  well 
as  of  station:  men  who  aspire  to  qualities  they  have  no 
claim  to :  eunuchs  of  ambition ! 

Society  is  brimful  of  absurdities,  which  no  ridicule 
will  r^wither;  and  of  this  kind  is  the  absurdity  of  the 
members  of  ojie  aristocracy  consenting  to  become  par- 
venus in  the  other :  authors  degrading  themselves  into 
pavenus  of  station,  and  lords  descending  into   parA-enus 


THE    ARISTOCRACY    OF    INTELLECT.  105 

of  intelligence — this  indeed  is  a  misconception  some- 
times fatal ;  always  ludicrous.  Lords,  consent  to  be 
lords ;  and,  before  attempting  to  be  authors,  rigidly 
scrutinize  your  claims  and  title-deeds  !  You  are  proud 
of  your  own  blazonry,  and  ridicule  the  pretensions  of 
the  parvenu ;  but  you  become  equally  ridiculous  when 
aiming  after  the  blazonry  of  mental  aristocracy — the 
.title  of  books ;  unless,  indeed,  you  have  the  gift  of  genius 
to  secure  your  position. 

Authors,  consent  to  be  authors  ;  and  before  attempt- 
ing to  "move  in  the  first  circles,"  unless  your  posi- 
tion call  you  there,  rigidly  scrutinize  what  it  is  you 
want :  what  is  your  aim,  and  whether  this  society  and 
its  demands  be  compatible  with  the  mission  of  your  lives. 
Do  not  degrade  yourselves  by  abdication  of  a  rightful 
throne  for  a  baffled  attempt  at  usurpation  of  a  foreign 
one. 

Either  there  is  dignity  in  intellectual  rank,  or  there  is 
not:  if  there  is,  no  other  rank  is.  needed  ;  if  there  is  not, 
no  other  rank  can  give  it ;  for  dignity  is  not  an  accident, 
but  a  quality. 


Io6  RANTHORPE. 


CHAPTER  IL 

PRIEZ     POUR     LUI. 

Full  little  knowest  thou  that  hast  not  tried, 

What  hell  it  is  in  suing  long  to  bide  ; 

To  lose  good  days  that  might  be  better  spent; 

To  waste  long  nights  in  pensive  discontent ; 

To  speed  to-day  ;  to  be  put  back  to-morrow  ; 

To  feed  on  hope ;  to  pine  with  fear  and  sorrow  ; 

To  fret  thy  soul  with  crosses  and  with  cares  ; 

To  eat  thy  heart  through  comfortless  despairs  ; 

To  fawn,  to  crouch,  to  ride,  to  ronne. 

To  speed,  to  give,  to  want,  to  be  undonne. 

Spenser. 

Oui,  mon  ami,  le  veritable  et  la  plus  digne  ressource  d'un  homme 
de  lettres  est  en  lui-meme  et  dans  ses  talents. 

Voltaire. 

A  PRISON  Stared  Ranthorpe  in  the  face  when  he 
awoke  to  the  stem  reahties  of  hfe.  Duns  beset  his 
doors,  and  made  him  deeply  feel  the  humiliation  of  his 
lot.  He  had  abjured  his  pilgrim's  scrip  and  staff,  and 
now  was  stumbling  over  the  path  to  ruin.  One  bitter 
lesson  he  had  learnt : — to  trust  only  to  himself  Bitter, 
but  beneficial;  for  it  served  to  bring  his  mind  back 
again  to  the  right  disposition,  and  served  to  unveil  to 
him  the  utter  folly  of  his  previous  hopes. 

'  In  his  rage  he  first  cursed  the  world  and  its  false- 
hoods; he  pictured  mankind  in  all  the  despicable 
colors  of  resentment ;  he  scorned  them  with  a  scorn 
of  rash-judging  youth,  and  hated  them  with  the  hatred 
of  one  just  deceived.  All  this  was  beneficial,  for  it 
threw  him  upon  himself;  and  made  him  look  only  to 
himself,  and  his  profession,  for  his  support  and  glory. 


PRIEZ    POUR    LUI,  107 

He  learnt  the  feeling  of  majestic  self-reliance ; — too  often 
but  a  pitiable  self-reference ! 

And  yet,  in  moments  of  despair,  this  feeHng  of  self- 
reliance  seemed  to  him  a  mockery,  and  the  world  a 
huge  distorted  farce.  Self-reliance ! — what  could  come 
of  it  ?  Was  he  not  without  friends — without  money — 
without  work  ?  Would  superb  self-reliance  procure  him 
the  meanest  necessaries  ? 

The  book  of  life  had  lain  open  before  him,  and  on 
its  fair  pages  he  had  scrawled  the  characters  of  folly  and 
misery ;  were  it  not  better  at  once  to  throw  that  book 
into  the  flames,  than  tear  those  blotted  pages  out  ? 

His  situation  was  indeed  pitiable;  and  yet  he  could 
do  nothing  to  better  it.  He  mused  and  mused  over  his 
past  folly,  and  his  blighted  prospects;  but  he  could  only 
muse :  his  thoughts  were  directed  to  the  past  and 
future. 

The  truth  is,  he  was  unfitted  for  work ;  his  previous 
habits  and  his  present  melancholy  equally  interposed. 
The  life  of  an  author,  when  he  sets  himself  to  work, 
must  be  placid  and  contemplative ;  he  who  has  to  live 
in  an  ideal  world,  should  be  tranquil  as  regards  the 
real.  He  should  know  the  real  world — he  should  have 
suffered  in  it — and  experienced  all  its  phases,  grave  and 
gay,  rich  and  poor ;  but  this  experience,  which  is  to  be 
the  fountain  of  his  inspiration,  must  not  mingle  ^vith  the 
current.  The  stream  flows  bright  and  limpid  over  its 
sandy  bed ;  but  if  you  disturb  that  bed,  the  sand  mixes 
with  the  water,  making  it  thick  and  undrinkable.  Ex- 
perience is  the  bed  over  which  must  flow  the  lucent 
stream  of  poetry. 

The  poet  can  no  more  write  without  having  suffered 
and  thought,  than  the  bird  can  fly  in  an  exhausted  air- 


Io8  RANTHORPE. 

pump.  He  must  learn  the  chords  of  the  everlasting 
harp,  before  he  can  draw  sweet  music  from  it.  But  h.e 
cannot  play  while  he  is  learning — he  cannot  write  while 
he  is  suffering — he  cannot  sing  while  his  heart  is  bleed- 
ing. If  he  attempt  it,  he  will  but  utter  incoherent  sobs. 
He  must  wait  until  that  suffering  has  passed  into 
memory.  There  it  will  work,  fortifying  the  soul  with 
its  examples,  not  tearing  it  with  thorns.  He  must  wait 
till  suffering  has  become  spiritualized,  by  losing  every 
portion  of  the  sensuous  pain,  before  he  can  transmute 
it  into  poetry ;  because  in  the  divine  world  of  art  all  is 
ideal,  even  tears ;  and  in  its  battles  no  real  blood  flows 
from  the  wounded  soldier,  but  celestial  ichor  from  the 
^^ounded  god. 


CHAPTER     III. 

EXPIATION. 

Sans  avenir,  riche  de  mon  printemps, 
Leste  et  joyeux,  je  montais  six  etages, 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans. 

Beranger. 

I.es  larnnes  troublent  la  vue. 

Alfred  de  Vigny. 

Juste  ciel !  tout  mon  sang  dans  mes  veines  se  glace  ! 
O  trouble  !  6  desespoir  !  6  deplorable  race  ! 

Racine. 

Ranthorpe  renounced  society.  The  friends  whom 
he  had  courted,  to  whom  he  looked  for  patronage  and 
success,  were  now  regarded  by  him  in  their  true  light. 
He  saw  that  genius,  however  great,  has  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  the  drawing-room,  unless  it  dwell  in  the  mind 


EXPIATION. 


[O9 


of  a  man  bred  up  in  drawing-rooms;  he  began  to 
heartily  despise  the  people  by  whom  he  had  a  little 
while  ago  aspired  to  be  treated  as  an  equal ;  he  rushed 
into  the  other  extreme,  and  thought  society  synonymous 
with  frivolity.  Florence  he  cursed  in  the  bitterness  of 
his  heart,  though  he  had  really  no  one  but  himself  to 
blame;  he  was  furious  at  her  treatment  of  him;  filled 
with  remorse  at  his  treatment  of  Isola.  He  was  as  one 
awakened  from  a  debauch,  whose  brain,  no  longer 
troubled  with  the  fumes  of  wine,  clearly  apprehends  the 
folly  of  his  acts. 

But  amongst  his  old  friends  he  found  true  friend- 
ship— ready  sympathy.  Wynton  sincerely  felt  for  him ; 
he  had  cause  to  do  so.  Joyce  was  foremost  in  his  offers 
of  services,  and  soon  procured  him  several  means  of 
lucrative  employment;  he  was,  however,  too  much  de- 
pressed to  write.  Harry  Cavendish  instantly  remem- 
bered that  his  "rooms"  were  too  large  for  him;  and 
that,  having  a  spare  bedroom,  it  would  be  both  pleasant 
and  economical  if  Ranthorpe  would  lodge  with  him. 
This  offer  was  accepted  the  more  joyfully  because  Ran- 
thorpe felt  the  want  of  Harry's  liveliness  as  a  preserva- 
tive against  despair. 

Harry's  "  rooms  "  were  not  illustrious  for  their  ele- 
gance. They  consisted  of  a  first  floor  in  Hans  Place, 
Sloane  Street,  comprising  a  drawing-room,  and  two 
bedrooms ;  but,  although  Hans  Place  is  dull  and  murky 
enough.  No.  7  was  a  lively  house — the  cage  might  be 
dark,  the  birds  within  sang  merrily. 

The  furniture  of  the  drawing-room  was  not  exactly 
in  accordance  with  Ranthorpe's  newly-awakened  luxu- 
rious taste,  but  his  position  prevented  him  from  fastidi- 
ousness.    One  stout  mahogany  table  covered   with  a 


IIO  RANTHORPE. 

very  dingy  green  cloth,  variegated  with  figures  of  gentle- 
men in  hunting  costumes,  dogs,  and  birds  as  large  as  the 
men ;  four  dusky-looking  chairs,  from  the  seats  of  which 
the  horse-hair  bulged  in  various  places ;  one  discrepant 
sofa,  a  well-used  drugget,  a  ricketty  chiffonnier  upon 
which  were  ranged  a  few  medical  books,  two  meer- 
schaum pipes,  an  instrument  case,  and  a  pair  of  boxing 
gloves;  one  green  flower-stand,  with  the  paint  much 
peeled  off,  containing  one  solitary  myrtle  pot;  such 
were  the  articles  of  use. 

Elegance,  however,  was  not  unattempted,  as  Mrs. 
Captain  Wilson,  their  landlady,  piqued  herself  upon 
her  "taste,"  and,  although  "misfortunes"  (not  specified) 
had  reduced  her  in  circumstances,  yet  nothing  she  de- 
clared could  "  make  her  forget  she  was  a  lady  !"  Now 
Mrs.  Wilson  thought  that  "  a  few  elegant  little  knick- 
Hacks,"  always  made  a  room  look  well,  and  "  so  much 
depended  on  appearances  !"  Such  was  her  theory  ;  her 
realization  of  it  may  be  gathered  from  the  inventory  of 
the  knick-nacks  gracing  the  drawing-room.  Three 
large  shells  placed  on  the  ledge  of  the  chiffonnier,  were 
balanced  by  the  charms  of  the  mantel-piece  ;  viz.,  in  the 
centre  one  French  cup  and  saucer,  with  a  landscape 
and  windmill  painted  on  either  side,  from  which  rose  to 
some  height  two  peacock's  feathers — ver}^  graceful,  in- 
deed ;  the  cup  was  flanked  on  one  side  by  a  tiny  wax 
figure  with  tremulous  head,  carefully  protected  by  a 
glass  shade,  with  a  rim  of  cut  velvet  round  the  base  ; 
and  on  the  other  side  lay  an  alabaster  poodle,  with  stiff 
curls  and  staring  eyes ;  a  cup,  inverted  in  its  saucer, 
stood  by  the  poodle  and  wax  figure;  two  enormous 
shells  followed ;  while  at  each  extremity  were  two  chim- 
ney candlesticks  with  glass  drops  (mostly  broken),  and 


EXPIATION.  I  I  [ 

save-alls  in  them  to  represent  wax-ends.  An  ancient 
glass,  with  a  diagonal  crack,  in  a  pauperized  frame,  hung 
over  these  ornaments  ;  and  over  the  glass  hung  a  por- 
trait of  Mrs.  Captain  Wilson  herself,  in  a  low  dress, 
with  very  long  curls,  as  she  might  have  appeared  some 
twenty  years  before ;  one  hand  resting  romantically  on 
her  bosom,  and  the  other  on  the  head  of  her  daughter, 
a  bony  dabby  child  of  six  or  seven,  with  flaxen  ringlets 
and  snub-nose,  holding  in  her  hand  a  hoop  of  gigantic 
dimensions,  while  a  blue  scarf  "  carried  off"  her  white 
muslin  frock.  A  miniature  of  "the  Captain,"  in  bril- 
liant regimentals,  and  highly  pacific  countenance, 
graced  the  space  between. 

I  forgot  to  mention  a  stuffed  blackbird  in  a  glass- 
case  which  had  a  very  lively  effect  on  a  side  table. 

Harry  rebelled  against  these  ornaments  at  first,  but 
Mrs.  Captain  Wilson  assured  him  that  they  gave  such 
a  finish  to  his  room  when  any  body  called ;  and,  in  fact, 
so  overwhelmed  him  with  her  experience  as  a  woman 
and  a  housekeeper  of  many  years'  standing,  that  he  was 
perforce  obliged  to  let  her  have  her  way. 

Here  Ranthorpe  found  an  economical  home,  and  a 
joyous  companion,  whose  unflagging  spirits  served 
in  a  great  measure  to  correct  his  despondency.  But 
when  Harr)'  was  absent,  the  fits  of  melancholy  would 
return ;  and  the  unhappy  poet  was  unable  to  find  refuge 
in  the  only  direction  where  it  could  possibly  be  found 
— in  work. 

And  why  was  he  unable  ? 

In  the  whirl  and  giddiness  of  his  lionism,  he  had 
contracted  debts  with  the  same  recklessness  as  he  had 
done  every  thing  else.  But  his  sense  of  honor  was  now 
galled  when  these  debts  were  to  be  paid,  and  he  found 


112  RANTHORPE. 

himself  without  money  to,  pay  them.  He  had  been 
corrupted — not  hardened.  His  great  anxiety  was  how 
to  free  himself  from  debt.  He  tried  to  write;  but  his 
brain  was  sluggish.  He  was  too  unhappy,  too  melan- 
choly, to  write.  He  had  lost  his  ambition,  he  had  lost 
his  illusions,  and  more  than  all  he  had  lost  his  self-re- 
spect. The  excuses,  which  I  formerly  endeavored  to 
make  for  him,  did  not  occur  to  his  mind.  He  only  saw 
the  facts  and  their  results ;  saw  how  he  had  wasted  his 
money,  his  time,  and  his  affections;  and  lost  his  posi- 
tion, his  ambition,  and  his  now  doubly-dear  Isola. 

He  threw  down  his  pen  and  strolled  out.  His  way 
led  him  into  Hyde  Park.  A  sudden  pang  shot  through 
him  as  he  saw  Lady  Wilmington's  carriage  driving 
slowly  along.  To  avoid  all  possible  rencontre,  he  turned 
into  Kensington  Gardens.  There  he  wandered  about 
gloomily,  retracing  the  history  of  his  acquaintance  with 
Florence ;  and  it  was  in  this  mood  that  he  was  startled 
and  annoyed  to  find  himself  standing  face  to  face  with 
Fanny,  who,  blushing  and  smiling,  held  out  her  hand 
to  him.  The  carriage  had  brought  her  there,  and  was 
waiting  till  she  had  concluded  her  walk. 

He  was  very  agitated ;  and  his  agitation  communi- 
cated itself  to  her  ;  though  in  general  she  was  not  at  all 
shy  with  him. 

"  How  is  it  that  we  have  not  seen  you  ?  "  she  asked, 
at  length.  "  Two  whole  months  to-morrow,  since  you 
last  called  !     Is  this  kind  ?  " 

Ranthorpe  looked  at  her  wonderingly. 

"  I  thought  you  considered  us  as  friends,"  she  con- 
tinued, looking  down. 

"  I  have  been  ill,"  he  said,  at  last,  anxious  to  make 
some  answer. 


EXPIATION.  113 

"111?  oh  ....  not  dangerously?"  she  saicl^ 
eagerly. 

"  I  fear  incurably,"  he  said,  without  intending  it. 

She  raised  her  large  eyes  to  him ;  they  were  full  of 
tears. 

He  felt  uneasy.  He  could  not  understand  her.  She 
must  surely  know  of  Florence's  rejection  of  him— and 
yet  her  manner  seemed  to  show  that  she  wished  to  be 
considered  his  friend  as  heretofore.  They  walked  on 
together  for  a  few  yards  in  silence. 

"  I  hope  you  have  the  best  advice,"  she  said,  timidly. 

"The  very  best — my  physician  is  Sorrow.  His 
drugs  are  bitter,  but  they  either  kill  or  cure." 

"  Sorrow  ? — oh  !  what  cause  can  you  have  for  sor- 
row ?  " 

"  Many;  above  all,  the  loss  of  my  own  respect — the 
sense  of  my  own  weakness — madness." 

"What weakness  can  a  mind  like  yours  have — oh  ! 
how  can  you,  who  have  the  world's  respect,  be  wanting 
in  your  own  ?     This  is  some  momentary  despondency." 

"  Are  you  then  ignorant — is  my  secret  a  secret  to 
you  ?  " 

She  blushed  deeply,  and  looked  down.  He  misin- 
terpreted her  blush. 

"  I  see  you  know  it ;  well,  then,  is  it  not  weakness 
to  forget  your  station — to  raise  your  eyes  to  one  who 
can  never  look  down  upon  you,  so  far  are  you  beneath 
her  in  the  social  scale? — Is  that  not  weakness — mad- 
ness ?  " 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears ;  but  they  were  tears  of 
joy.  A  suffocating  sensation — dim,  but  intense — ren- 
dered her  speechless.  She  felt  he  Avas  on  the  eve  of  de- 
claring his  love  for  her. 

8 


114  KANTHORPE. 

"  Oh,"  he  continued,  without  noticing  her  agitation, 
"  what  a  mockery  it  is  to  talk  of  genius — to  declaim 
about  the  supremacy  of  mind — when  the  strongest  mind 
is  borne  along  by  the  wayward  gusts  of  passion  and 
vanity.  We  are  the  slaves  of  our  passions;  and  our  in- 
tellects only  serve  to  make  us  aware  of  our  slavery,  with- 
out being  able  to  burst  its  bonds.  Miss  Wilmington, 
you  and  I  have  often  talked  with  enthusiasm  about 
poets,  yet,  if  you  look  into  their  biographies,  you  will 
find  that  one  and  all  have  suffered  from  ill-placed  affec- 
tion; they  have  raised  their  eyes  too  high  above  them, 
or  too  low  beneath  them.  This  has  been  my  misfortune 
and  I  rue  it  now.  I  have  been  too  ambitious.  I  have 
been  misled  by  vanity  to  place  my  affections  where 
they  could  only  meet  with  scorn.'* 

"  No — no — no — no  ?  "  eagerly  answered  Fanny, 
"  not  with  scorn." 

"  Then,  with  worse — with  ridicule." 

"  Ridicule !  "  she  said,  looking  at  him,  tenderly,  *'  you 
are  not  serious — you  are  trying  me ;  you — "she  paused, 
and  then,  with  a  sudden  effort,  but  in  a  low  and  scarcely 
audible  tone,  blushing  deeply  as  she  spoke,  "  You 
cannot  have  misunderstood  me  ?" 

Ranthorpe  trembled ;  he  understood  her  then,  and 
his  heart  throbbed  violently,  as  the  wild  thought  flashed 
across  his  brain.     She  loved  him  ! 

In  another  instant  he  chased  away  the  thought  as 
tlie  suggestion  of  his  vanity.  But  one  look  at  the  agi- 
tated girl  beside  him,  who,  trembling,  with  downcast 
eyes,  stood  fluttering,  like  a  new  caught  bird,  awaiting 
his  reply,  convinced  him  that  he  had  not  misunderstood 
her.  It  was  a  moment  of  strange  emotion.  A  young, 
rich,  noble,  charming  girl,  avowing  her  love  to  a  poor, 


EXPIATION. 


"5 


melancholy,  ruined  man,  and  that  man  one  who  had  so 
recently  been  rejected  by  her  sister,  would  at  all  times 
have  been  perplexing ;  but  to  him  it  was  doubly  so, 
from  his  anxiety  as  to  how  he  should  escape  from  the 
dilemma.  He  dared  not  deceive  her;  he  dared  not  un- 
deceive her.  To  tell  her  that  she  had  misunderstood 
him,  would  have  been  excessively  painful ;  to  tell  her 
that  he  had  loved  her  sister,  would  scarcely  be  less  so. 

Besides,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  he  was  not  a  little 
gratified  at  her  affection.  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to 
say,  that  he  never  once  thought  of  availing  himself  of 
it.  He  did  not  love  her.  Her  rank  and  wealth  were 
no  temptations  to  him;  although  these  things  had 
certainly  unconsciously  added  to  Florence's  charms. 
Nevertheless,  his  vanity  was  pleased — his  wounded  self- 
love  was  soothed  at  the  idea  of  her  affection  for  him. 

His  silence  only  increased  her  agitation.  He  saw 
that  it  was  necessary  to  speak;  and  justly  deeming  that 
plain  avowal  of  his  situation  would  on  the  whole  be  the 
least  painful,  as  it  would  enable  him  to  affect  a  misun- 
derstanding of  her  words,  he  thus  addressed  her. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Wilmington,  I  am  sure  you  are  a 
sincere  friend,  and  I  will  therefore  confide  in  you  that 
secret  which  your  sister  appears  to  have  concealed." 

She  was  amazed  and  somewhat  alarmed  at  this 
commencement;  the  introduction  of  her  sister  was 
peculiarly  unpleasant  to  her. 

''  You  are  good  enough  to  think  that  my  affection 
would  not  be  treated  with  scorn  or  ridicule ;  because 
your  own  excellent  heart  assures  you,  that  wQXQyou  so 
placed,  the  refusal  would  at  least  be  kindly.  But  your 
sister  is  different,  as  I,  unhappily,  know  too  well.  She 
won  my  heart — but  she  won  it  for  her  amusement;  and 


IlO  RANTHORPE. 

when  I  earnestly,  but  humbly  laid  it  at  her  feet,  she 
scorned  me !  You  weep — you  feel  for  me !  Thank 
you  for  those  tears.  I,  too,  have  wept  over  my  folly — 
and  this  has  been  the  malady  I  spoke  of;  my  weakness 
was  love;  my  madness  was  loving  one  who  could  not. 
tvouldnot  love  me !" 

Her  tears  fell  fast ;  her  pale  lips  moved,  but  no 
word  issued  from  them.  The  blood  left  her  cheeks  and 
rushed  to  support  her  sinking  heart.  She  had  been 
dashed  from  her  pinnacle  of  joy,  and  was  stunned  bv 
the  fall. 

"  This  is  the  reason  of  my  ceasing  visits,  which  to 
me  were  once  so  delightful,"  he  added,  in  the  hopes  of 
giving  her  time  to  recover  herself  whilst  he  spoke. 
"Of  course  I  could  never  meet  her  again.  Indeed,  I 
have  given  up  society  altogether ;  although  there  are 
some  few  whom  I  shall  regret — yourself  among  them. 
There  has  always  been  the  purest  sympathy  between  us  ; 
and  I  shall  always  preserve  a  delightful  recollection  of 
you.  But  you  must  see  how  imperative  it  is  on  me  not  to 
waste  any  more  time  in  society  where  I  have  no  right- 
ful place.     I  have  now  to  devote  myself  solely  to  art." 

They  were  at  the  gates.  He  conducted  her  to  the 
carriage,  took  a  respectful  but  friendly  leave  of  her,  and 
saw  the  carriage  drive  off  with  pecuHar  satisfaction. 

When  Fanny  found  herself  alone  she  threw  herself 
back  and  indulged  in  a  paroxysm  of  grief.  There  was 
one  ray  of  comfort — she  had  not  betrayed  her  feelings 
— Ranthorpe  had  misunderstood  her  !  This  was  some- 
thing; it  was  a  small  ray  of  sunshine  edging  the 
thunder-cloud;  but  the  cloud  was  not  less  dark  and  op- 
pressive, because  its  edge  was  tinged  with  light. 

Ranthorpe  walked  home  pensive. 


NEW    HOPES.  117 


CHAPTER     IV. 

NEW    HOPES. 

He  arose  fresh  in  the  morning  to  his  task ;  the  silence  of  the  night 
invited  him  to  pursue  it;  and  he  can  truly  say  that  food  and  rest  were 
not  preferred  to  it.  No  part  gave  him  uneasiness  but  the  last,  for  then 
he  grieved  that  the  work  was  done.  Bishop  Horne. 

O  pouvoir  merveilleux  de  I'imagination  !  Le  plaisir  d'inventer 
ma  fable,  le  soin  de  I'arranger,  I'impression  d'intt^ret  que  fasait  sur 
moi-meme  le  premier  apergu  des  situations  que  je  prdmeditais,  tout 
cela  me  saisit  et  me  dotacha  de  moi-meme  au  point  de  me  rendre 
croyable  tout  ceque  Ton  raconte  des  ravissements  extatiques. 

Makmontel  :  Mctnoires. 

Ranthorpe  had  recovered  his  self-respect.  The  in- 
terview with  Fanny  Wihnington  had  this  effect  at  least 
upon  him ;  that  it  taught  him,  firstly — how  easy  it  is  for 
those  in  love  to  fancy  their  passion  returned  (and  thus 
excused  his  weakness  in  supposing  Florence  loved 
him) ;  secondly — it  made  him  aware  that  his  love  for 
Florence  had  not  been  an  adventurer's  love — that  her 
rank  and  wealth  alone  would  never  have  dazzled  him — 
never  made  his  heart  forget  its  allegiance  to  Isola. 

The  reader  may  perhaps  fancy  that  Ranthorpe 
needed  no  monitor  to  convince  him  of  this;  but  we 
must  understand  that  he  beheved  Florence  to  be 
nothing  more  than  a  worthless,  frivolous  coquette.  Ac- 
cordingly, when  in  the  severity  of  his  self-examination 
he  found  that  his  love  had  been  rather  the  result  of  a 
feverish  excitement,  than  of  real  sympathy,  he  accused 
himself  of  having  been  dazzled  by  her  extrinsic  ad- 
vantages, because  he  could  then  see  nothing  intrin- 
sically worth  loving. 


115  RANTHORPE. 

Fanny's  love  thus  reinstated  him  in  his  own  opinion. 
He  felt  that  if  he  had  erred,  it  was  from  no  unworthy 
motive;  the  inexperience  of  youth,  his  extreme  suscepti- 
bility, and  Florence's  art,  were  to  blame;  and  Isola 
herself,  he  thought,  would  pardon  him  if  she  knew  all ! 

His  spirits  revived,  and  he  began  to  w-rite  with 
vigor.  Some  miscellaneous  contributions  to  the  maga- 
zines had  put  a  litde  money  in  his  pocket,  and  he  re- 
solved at  once  to  write  a  tragedy  upon  which  he  would 
stake  his  chance.  Harry  warmly  applauded  this  resolu- 
tion; and  having  determined  himself  to  work  a  Httlc 
more  steadily  at  his  profession,  declared  they  would  be 
"  models  to  the  young  generation." 

Ranthorpe  then  set  vigorously  to  work.  Oh !  how 
happy  were  the  quiet  days  he  now  passed !  How  calm 
and  full  was  his  content,  contrasted  with  the  unsettled 
feverish  excitement  of  his  former  life ! 

There  was  but  one  sorrow — but  one  dark,  inefface- 
able spot :  that  was  the  remembrance  of  Isola,  and  the 
fruitlessness  of  his  search  after  her.  No  clue  whatever 
was  afforded  of  her  whereabouts.  At  times  he  shuddered 
as  he  suspected  her  of  having  committed  suicide.  But 
this  suspicion  was  soon  dispelled,  by  tlie  reflection  that 
her  suicide  would  assuredly  have  been  known;  and 
moreover,  that  she  was  too  strong-minded  to  yield  to 
any  weakness  of  the  kind.  Her  absence  was  the  only 
drawback  to  his  happiness.  He  used  to  rise  early  and 
strike  across  the  fields  for  a  long  walk,  during  which  he 
planned  the  scenes  of  his  tragedy.  The  bracing  air 
gave  him  such  an  appetite  that  Harry  Cavendish,  whose 
nightly  dissipation  destroyed  his  morning  appetite,  was 
ceaseless  in  his  jokes  at  the  poetical  voracity  of  his 
friend. 


NEW    HOPES.  I  19 

Truly,  the  li  ay  cocks  of  bread-and-butter,  and  in- 
definite quantities  of  eggs,  vanished  with  marvellous 
rapidity,  while  joyous  conversation  made  digestion  light. 

His  mind  recovered  its  elasticity,  and  his  work  ad- 
vanced rapidly.  Pungent  and  Bourne  vainly  en- 
deavored to  dissuade  him  from  so  wasting  his  time;  he 
treated  all  their  objections,  founded  on  the  ignorance  of 
actors  and  managers,  with  the  specific  levity  which 
characterizes  the  poet  race. 

"It  is  useless  for  Bourne  to  talk,"  he  said  to  Joyce 
one  day ;  I  know  very  well  that  a  good  play  is  sure  to 
succeed,  and  of  course  I  fancy  my  play  will  be  good. 
Boume's  plays  have  been  unanimously  refused,  no 
doubt.  No  wonder;  but  1  cannot  see  how  what  holds 
good  of  hira,  must  necessarily  hold  good  of  me!" 

Bourne,  however,  was  prodigal  of  his  experience. 
He  inveighed  against  Macready,  because  he  would  not 
play  "  Rodolpho  the  Accursed ^^  a  part  written  for  him, 
and  calling  forth  all  his  })eculiarities,  with  a  mad  scene 
and  a  murder.  Bourne's  tirades  fell  flat  upon  the  ear 
of  his  friend,  who,  having  read  "  Rodolpho,"  could  not 
but  applaud  the  taste  of  the  actor.  He  was  not  at  all 
surprised  at  the  treatment  Bourne  had  received,  nor  at 
all  disposed  to  think  it  could  possibly  apply  to  his 
play. 

"You  are  young  and  enthusiastic,"  said  Bourne; 
"  you  love  poetry — especially  your  own — you  have  con- 
fidence in  its  success ;  but  let  me  tell  you,  that  managers 
and  actors  are  equally  leagued  against  all  dramatists; 
the  former  have  an  abstract  horror  of  fine  plays;  their 
penchants  are  for  pageants — their  souls  are  drunk  with 
sumptuosities  and  '  gettings  up.'  Actors  are  no  better: 
they  think  of  nothing  but  their  'parts,'  which  they  tiever 


I20  RANTHORPE. 

understand — no,  not  even  when  drilled  by  the  author. 
All  they  care  for  is  salary  and  applause." 

"  Surely  you  libel  them." 

"I  don't,  indeed;   I  flatter  them,  on  the  contrary." 

In  spite  of  this  advice,  Ranthorpe  continued,  and 
constantly  sat  up  all  the  night  ere  he  could  lay  down 
his  pen.  This  Mrs.  Captain  Wilson  thought  very 
extraordinary;  but  what  struck  her  as  still  more  so  was 
the  declamation  which  he  so  loudly  indulged  in,  "  fright- 
ing the  dull  ear  of  the  drowsy  night."  While  writing, 
he  was  often  so  excited,  that  he  would  rise,  and  twining 
his  fingers  in  his  hair,  would  stride  about  the  room,  de- 
claiming the  verses  as  they  were  flowing  from  his  brain, 
in  that  state  of  poetic  exaltation  so  Avell  named  by  the 
Greeks,  enthusiasm — a  being  full  of  the  God.  Now, 
although  Mrs.  Captain  Wilson  had  the  very  profoundest 
respect,  and  some  regard  for  Ranthorpe,  yet  she  could 
not  consent  to  have  her  slumbers  broken  by  these  tits 
of  enthusiasm.  She  could  not  understand,  she  said, 
"  why  he  did  not  sit  quietly  at  his  table  to  write,  as  she 
did  when  she  wrote  a  letter,  or  made  out  the  washing- 
bill;"  and  at  last  she  was  forced  to  remonstrate  with 
him  on  the  necessity  of  so  doing. 

He  apologized,  and  promised  reformation.  To  carry 
this  plan  into  efficient  execution,  he  went  to  bed  early. 
The  next  night  he  sat  up,  however,  and  wrote  in  silence 
till  twelve  o'clock.  He  then,  quite  unconsciously,  be- 
gan to  pace  the  room.  To  declaim  to  himself  in  an 
undertone  was,  of  course,  the  next  step — and  to  be 
carried  away  by  his  feelings,  and  to  raise  his  voice  to 
ranting  pitch,  was  a  natural  consequence. 

Mrs.  Wilson  turned  uneasily  in  her  bed,  and  had 
"  no  opinion  of  authors."     At  length,  to  his  great  joy, 


THE  READING  OF  THE  PLAY.  12  1 

and  hers,  the  tragedy  was  finished.  He  read  it  over 
with  considerable  pride,  and  saw  in  it  the  sure  founda- 
tion of  his  fortune.  He  then  invited  several  of  his 
friends  to  a  reading  of  this  play,  that  he  might  profit  by 
their  suggestions. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    READING    OF    THE    PLAY. 

La  Marquis.  Quoi !  chevalier,  est  ce  que  tu  pretends  soutenir  cette 
pifece  ? 

Dorante.     Oui,  je  pretends  la  soutenir. 

Le  Marquis.     Parbleu  !  je  la  garantis  detestable. 

Dorante.     Pourquoi  est  elle  detestable  ? 

Le  Marquis,     Elle  est  detestable,  parcequ'elle  est  detestable. 

Dorante.  Apres  9a  il  n'y  a  plus  rien  k  dire  ;  voilk  son  proems  fait. 
Mais  encore  instruis  nous,  et  nous  dis  les  defauts  qui  y  sont. 

Le  Marquis.  Que  sais-je,  moi  ?  je  ne  me  suis  pas  seulement  donne 
la  peine  de  I'dcouter.  Mais  enfin  je  sais  que  je  n  ai  jamais  rien  vu  de 
si  mechant,  Dieu  me  damne  ! 

MOLIERE  :  La  Critique  de  l' Ecole  des  Fetnmes 

Bayes.  You  must  know  that  I  have  written  a  whole  play  just  in  the 
very  same  style ;  it  was  never  acted  yet. 

Johnson.     How  so  ? 

Bayes.  Egad,  I  can  hardly  tell  you  for  laughing  ;  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  It's 
so  pleasant  a  story,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Egad,  the  players  refused  to  act  it, 
ha!  ha!  ha  ! 

Johnson.     That  was  rude. 

Bayes.  Rude,  ay,  egad,  they  are  the  rudest  and  uncivilest  persons, 
and  all  that,  in  the  world.  I've  written,  I  do  verily  believe,  a  whole 
cart-load  of  things,  every  whit  as  good  as  this,  and  yet  I  vow  to  Gad 
these  insolent  fellows  have  turned  them  all  back  again  upon  my 
hands.  j^hg  Rehearsal. 

The  piece  was  to  be  read  to  a  few  "literary  friends," 
i.  e,,  gentlemen  who  expect  boxes  on  the  first  night,  and 
presentation  copies ;  in  return  for  which  they  are  ever 
ready  to  enlighten  their  circle  of  acquaintances  with  in- 
formation as  to  "what — is  doing  now;"  together  with 


122  RANTHORPE. 

many  interesting  particulars  of  the  opinions,  habits, 
looks,  and  domesticities  of  the  celebrated  author; 
which  particulars  have  their  origin  mostly  in  conjecture 
or  exaggeration,  but  being  uttered  with  confidence  to  a 
gossipping  world,  are  received  as  unquestionable  truths. 
From  these  unsullied  sources  certain  weekly  newspapers 
are  supplied,  and  evening  parties  enlivened.  Thus  the 
world  becomes  aware  of  the  singular  facts  that  Words- 
worth likes  the  lean  of  mutton  chops,  and  that  Buiwer 
does  }wt  write  his  own  novels. 

To  such  an  audience,  relieved  by  Pungent  and 
Bourne,  Ranthorpe  was  to  read  his  play.  Joyce  and 
Wynton  had  seen  it  in  manuscript.  The  candles  were 
snuffed — the  author  coughed — the  manuscript  was  bent 
backwards — and  the  auditors  looked  becomingly 
serious.  The  subject  was  announced  as  '*  Quintus 
Curtius." 

*'  Roman  costume  ?"  asked  Bourne. 

"  Of  course." 

"  Oh !  I  only  asked ;  you  know,  I  suppose,  that 
Roman  costume  is  in  very  bad  odor  at  the  theatre. 
Several  first-rate  plays  refused  solely  on  account  of  the 
toga.     I  know  it  from /(fri-^//^/ experience." 

The  poet  replied  that  he  was  sorry  to  hear  it ;  but 
as  he  had  no  great  faith  in  such  obstacles,  with  "  Vir- 
ginius"  before  his  eyes,  he  was  not  much  alarmed. 

The  reading  commenced. 

The  opening  speech  had  scarcely  been  finished, 
when  Pungent  observed, 

"  Pardon  me  the  interruption — but  you  know  my 
frankness — I  may  perhaps  say  fastidiousness — but  don't 
you  think  the  epithet  ^ J>reg?iatit  danger'  rather  indeli- 
cate?" 


THE  READING  OF  THE  PLAY.  1 23 

'*  To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure,"  replied  Ran- 
thorpe. 

"True,"  added  Pungent;  "to  the  pure — but  not  to 
the  ///.  I  dare  say  it  may  pass  as  a  metaphor,  but  still 
you  know  the  public  is  as  censorious  as  a  prude,  and  as 
sharp-nosed — I  only  give  you  my  opinion — " 

Authors  !  if  ever  you  desire  to  appreciate  the  extent 
of  men's  impertinence,  ask  them  for  their  opinions. 
Many,  many  things  they  dare  not  utter  spontaneously^ 
are  brought  out  by  this  inconsiderate  candor. 

"  Why — since  you  ask  me  my  real  opinion,"  they 
observe  (glad  to  escape  the  hypocrisy  of  politeness),  by 
way  of  preface  to  their  malice.  Oh !  it  is  a  glorious 
opportunity.  Never  did  they  relish  honest  candor  so 
much  before. 

This  Ranthorpe  experienced.  Pungent's  objection 
was  but  the  key-note  to  a  chorus  of  carpings.  His 
friends  did  not  listen — they  watched  for  words  or  meta- 
phors to  object  to.  They  had  come  there  to  give  their 
opinions,  and  nothing  but  discovery  of  faults  could  have 
reflected  on  their  judgment. 

So  annoyed  was  the  unfortunate  author,  that  he 
several  times  offered  to  cease  the  reading,  but  his 
''friends"  were  too  anxious  to  exhaust  their  triumph, to 
consent  to  any  cessation.  At  the  end  of  the  fourth  act 
these  judgments  were  severally  passed  : 

"  I  think  it  wants  action." 

"  No  :  but  situation  and  variety." 

"  Some  comic  characters  would  enliven  it." 

"  It  is  so  very  ill-constructed." 

"  You  have  no  villain — tragedies  never  succeed  with- 
out villains." 

'*  It  is  much  too  long." 


124  RANTHORPE. 

In  spite  of  opposition  the  fifth  act  was  clamorously 
solicited.  During  the  perusal,  the  "literary  friends" 
were  observed  to  yawn,  to  read  the  titles  of  the  books 
on  the  shelves,  to  examine  the  nature  of  their  boots,  and 
to  be  curious  about  their  nails. 

They  did  not  spare  the  fifth  act;  the  first  four  had 
hardened  them  in  impertinence,  and  the  taste  of  honest 
candor  had  been  so  inviting,  that  they  surfeited  them- 
selves at  last  with  it.  They  advised  him  "as  a  friend" 
not  to  send  it  into  any  of  the  theatres. 

Bourne  declared  that  if  the  piece  were  five  times  as 
perfect,  he  would  have  no  better  chance  of  getting  it 
produced,  or  looked  at.  He  (Bourne)  knew  something 
of  theatres,  and  Ranthorpe  would  07ie  day  tell  him  he 
had  been  right.  For  his  part,  he  had  quite  given  the 
drama  over  as  hopeless;  and  until  pageantry  ceased, 
and  the  true  intellectual  drama,  with  purity  of  purpose 
and  legitimacy  of  means,  again  arose,  he  (Bourne) 
should  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  With  these,  and 
many  similar  remarks,  his  friends  took  their  leave,  hav- 
ing taught  him  a  lesson  he  was  not  likely  to  forget.  He 
packed  up  his  manuscript  with  offended  pride,  and  re- 
proached himself  for  having  soHcited  their  attention. 

"  Had  I  merely  shown  my  play  to  a  few  of  my  real 
friends,  like  Joyce  and  Wynton,  I  might  have  been 
spared  this  evening;  I  might  have  received  hints  from 
which  to  profit.  But  these  fellows  are  now  rejoicing  in 
having  sat  in  judgment  on  a  work  they  cannot  compre- 
hend. Should  it  succeed,  they  will  exclaim  on  all  sides, 
*  Yes,  he  read  it  to  me  in  manuscript;  I  took  the  liberty 
of  suggesting  some  alterations.'  Should  it  fail,  they  will 
declare  that  they  predicted  it;  that  they  offered  some 
remarks,  but  my  vanity  would  not  allow  me  to  avail 


THE  READING  OF  THE  PLAY.  1 25 

myself  of  them.  I  will  appeal  to  that  sole  critic,  the 
pubHc." 

Reader,  are  you  of  "  a  literary  turn  ?  " — if  so,  let  me 
hint  a  word  of  counsel.  Before  you  submit  a  manu- 
script to  a  friend  for  his  opinion,  be  very  sure  he  is  a 
friend.  It  requires  great  confidence  in  a  man's  friend- 
ship and  rectitude,  to  place  your  self-love  thus  at  his 
feet.  The  temptation  to  exhibit  his  cleverness  at  your 
expense  is  irresistible.  If  not  that,  then  there  is  the 
other  temptation,  of  winning  your  good-will  by  unhesi- 
tating cajolery.  Depend  upon  it  he  will  see  nothing 
good  in  your  work,  or  everything — unless  he  is  really 
your  friend,  in  which  case  he  will  not  be  deterred  from 
very  plain  speaking ;  he  will  not  deceive  you  by  flat- 
tery ;  he  will  point  out  the  portions  he  objects  to,  with 
manly  confidence  in  your  appreciation  of  his  motives. 

In  this  latter  case,  a  friend's  eye  is,  indeed,  invalu- 
able; he  alone  can  distinguish  between  intention  and 
execution,  and  can  tell  whether  what  is  clear  to  you,  is 
also  clear  to  the  reader.  But,  as  I  said,  you  must  have 
confidence  in  his  judgment  and  his  friendship  before 
you  risk  his  "  friendly  malice." 


126  RANTHORPE. 


CHAPTER     VI. 

COSA    SCABROSA. 

O,  but  man,  proud  man  ! 
Drest  in  a  little  brief  authority ; 
Most  ignorant  of  what  he's  most  assured — 
Like  an  angry  ape 

Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven 
As  make  the  angels  weep ! 

Measure  for  Measure. 

O,  it  is  excellent 
To  have  a  manager's  strength  ;  but  it  is  tyrannous 
To  use  it  like  a  7nanagcr. 

Ibid  ;  variorum  edition. 

About  three  hundred  plays  are  every  season  sent  in 
to  each  patent  theatre — about  three  or  four  plays  are 
produced ! * 

Those  who  shout  their  approbation  of  a  dramatist 
on  the  successful  "  first  night,"  naturally  think  that  it 
must  be  a  glorious  thing  to  sway  the  multitude  of  hearts 
then  jubilant  with  enthusiasm ;  but  little  do  they  know 
all  that  the  happy  dramatist  has  undergone,  before  his 
play  could  be  produced ;  little  do  they  know  his  petty 
vexations  and  serious  alarms — the  hopes  and  fears  that 
have  haunted  his  harassed  brain — the  "  suing  long  to 
bide,"  and  the  "  insolence  of  office,"  to  which  he  has 
been  subject ! 

Ranthorpe  thought,  that  having  written  his  play, 
the  great  obstacle  was  overcome ;  he  knew  not  that  he 

*  It  must  be  remembered  that  this  was  written  five  years  ago 
{1842) ;  now  there  is  not  one  patent  theatre  in  which  the  legitimate 
drama  is  performed.  But  the  cosa  scad/vsa,  noted  in  this  chapter,  re- 
mains the  same  as  ever. 


COS A    SCABROSA.  I 27 

had  three  hundred  rivals,  and  an  ignorant  judge;  he 
soon  unlearned  his  error. 

Ah  !  glorious  shout  that  betokens  success !  How  it 
thrills  the  heart !  —  how  intoxicating  is  this  feeling  of 
success !  A  thousand  hands  stirred  by  a  thousand 
hearts,  give  my  creation  their  approval ! 

Sweet,  no  doubt !  but  //  would  never  repay  the  toil, 
anxiety,  and  distress  which  every  dramatist  must  under- 
go. Ah  no !  success  has  no  such  price ;  the  poet  must 
be  content  to  draw  repayment  from  the  delight  he  ex- 
perienced in  the  elaboration  of  his  work,  in  all  the  bliss- 
ful thoughts  which  it  inspired,  and  in  all  the  activity 
which  it  provoked — only  thus  can  he  be  repaid  ! 

Ranthorpe  had  yet  to  learn  the  conditions  of  suc- 
cess. Having  copied  out  his  tragedy  with  scrupulous 
neatness,  he  packed  it  up  in  a  neat  little  parcel,  and 
enclosed  a  neat  little  note,  informing  the  manager  he 
gave  him  the  first  offer  of  his  play,  which  seemed  per- 
fectly adapted  for  the  present  company;  and  request- 
ing, that  in  case  of  its  not  being  considered  suitable,  the 
manager  would  returned  it  to  him  as  early  as  possible. 

This  precious  parcel  he  took  himself  to  Covent 
Garden  Theatre,  for  fear  of  any  accident;  and  it  was 
with  extreme  nervousness  that  he  entered  at  the  "  stage 
door,"  and  found  himself  in  a  dark,  low,  dismal-looking 
passage,  where  two  actors,  and  some  "  understrappers," 
were  engaged  in  a  little  playful  conversation.  He  asked 
if  Mr. —  was  within.  One  of  the  actors  turned  to  the 
porter,  and  said :  "  Walker,  here's  a  gentleman  wants 
Mr. — ;  is  he  in  ?" 

Walker  was  at  that  moment  superintending  the 
cooking  of  a  chop,  and  without  raising  his  eyes  from 
the  gridiron,  replied  :  "  No — won't  be  here  to-day." 


128  RANTHORPE. 

"  Then,"  replied  Ranthorpe,  "  I'll  leave  this  parcel 
for  him."  He  blushed,  for  he  felt  that  every  one 
present  must  have  detected  him  to  be  an  author,  and 
his  parcel  to  contain  a  play.  He  hurried  into  the  street 
again,  and  felt  a  load  was  off  his  mind.  His  play  was 
presented ;  the  next  step  was  to  have  it  produced.  He 
invented  several  forms  under  which  the  flattering  ad- 
miration of  the  manager  would  be  expressed,  in  the 
note  which  would  follow  his  first  perusal.  Then  he 
doubted,  perhaps,  whether  the  manager  would  not  be 
too  cunning  to  express  all  he  felt,  for  fear  of  raising  ex- 
orbitant demands  from  the  author.  Before  he  reached 
his  home,  he  had  already  signed  his  agreement  with  the 
manager,  who  all  this  time  was  as  innocent  of  any  in- 
tention of  reading  his  play,  as  he  had  been  of  the  two 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  others ! 

A  week  passed,  and  another  and  another ;  yet  no 
answer  from  the  manager.  Very  strange !  he  must 
have  had  abundance  of  time  to  read  the  play.  Another 
week  passed ;  still  no  answer.  Annoyed  at  this  silence, 
Ranthorpe  addressed  him  a  long  letter;  equally  un- 
answered. Exasperated  he  wrote  again  in  a  very  angry 
style ;  no  answer ! 

He  called  at  the  theatre;  the  manager  was  out.  He 
called  again ;  the  manager  was  engaged.  He  called  a 
third,  fourth,  fifth,  and  sixth  time,  and  Mr. —  was  al- 
ways out,  at  rehearsal,  or  engaged.  The  season  closed, 
and  Percy  had  received  no  answer. 

Deeply  mortified,  he  wrote  a  very  peremptory  letter 
demanding  that  his  play  should  be  instantly  returned  to 
him;  and  asking  Mr. —  if  he  knew  'who7n  he  was  treat- 
ing in  that  ungentlemanly  manner.  He  received  no 
answer ! 


THE    DRAMATIST    WITH    THE    MANAGER.  1 29 

Taking  his  horsewhip  with  the  firm  intention  of  ap- 
plying it  to  the  back  of  the  insolent  blackguard,  who 
had  treated  him  with  such  utter  want  of  respect,  he 
arrived  at  the  theatre  and  found  it  closed.  The  manager 
was  on  the  continent  "during  the  recess." 

I  know  not  whether  "  they  manage  these  things 
better  in  France,"  but  I  am  sure  that  they  cannot 
manage  them  more  unfeelingly.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  managers  are  a  harassed  race;  but  their 
own  interest  no  less  than  the  respect  due  to  all  men, 
requires  that  they  should  adopt  some  better  mode  of 
treating  with  authors. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

THE    DRAMATIST    WITH    THE    MANAGER. 

II  est  vrai  qu'il  les  connait  mal,  mais  ii  les  paie  bien,  et  c'est  de 
quoi  maintenant  nos  arts  ont  plus  de  besoin  que  de  toute  autre  chose. 

Pour  moi,  je  vous  I'avoue,  je  me  repais  un  peu  de  gloire.  Les 
applaudissements  me  touchent ;  et  je  tiens  que  c'est  un  supplice  assez 
facheux  que  de  se  produire  a  des  sots.  II  y  a  plaisir  a  travailler  pour 
des  personnes  qui  soient  capable  de  sentir  les  ddlicatesses  d'un  art,  et 
par  de  chatouillantes  approbations,  vous  regaler  de  votre  travail. 
MoLiERE :  Bourgeois  Ge?itilhomme. 

Y  escribo  por  el  arte  inventaron 
Los  que  el  vulgar  aplauso  pretendieron  ; 
Porque  como  las  paga  el  vulgo,  es  justo 
Hablarle  en  necio,  para  darle  gusto. 

Lope  de  Vega  :  Arte  tiiievo  de  hacer  Comedias. 

Imagine  Ranthorpe's  surprise  when,  some  time  after- 
wards, Joyce  called  on  him  with  the  information  that 
the  manager  of  Covent  Garden  had  desired  to  see  him 
the  next  day  at  two  o'clock. 

"  I  see  your  surprise,"  he  added,  "  but  it  is  a  fact. 


130  RANTflORPE. 

I  have  some  influence  at  the  theatre,  and  interested  my- 
self about  your  tragedy.  After  persisting  with  savage 
energy  for  some  time,  I  succeeded  in  making  him  read 
it ;  directly  he  had  read  it,  he  said  he  would  put  it  on 
the  stage,  and  he  wishes  to  consult  you  on  some  altera- 
tions." 

Ranthorpe  forgot  his  anger  in  the  pleasure  of  this 
news.  He  no  longer  thought  of  horsewhipping  the 
manager  who  admired,  and  would  produce  his  play. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Joyce,  "  you  wont  object  to  make 
such  alterations  he  may  suggest." 

"  That  depends  upon  the  things  suggested." 

"  Of  course  ....  of  course.  But  the  fact  is,  you 
know,  that  people  in  the  theatre  have  advantages  which 
authors  want;  they  have  great  practical  experience — 
they  understand  the  public  taste." 

"  Amply  do  they  show  this — by  repeated  failures," 
said  Ranthorpe,  laughing. 

"  Why,  I  suppose  like  other  men  they  make  mistakes 
sometimes." 

"The  exceptions  are  too  numerous  to  prove  the 
rule." 

"  Nay,  you  are  hard.  What  I  was  going  to  say 
was,  don't  reject  their  opinions." 

"  I  won't  ....  when  they  agree  with  my  own.  I 
can't  be  more  impartial." 

There  was  a  drizzly  rain  falling,  and  a  keen  wind 
blowing,  as  Ranthorpe  set  forth,  the  following  day,  for 
Covent  Garden  Theatre;  but  the  exultation  of  his  mind 
prevented  his  noticing  the  inclemency  of  the  weather, 
and  he  walked  along  holding  imaginary  conversations 
with  the  manager,  and  stoutly  resisting  imaginary  altera- 
tions.    On  arriving  at  the  theatre  he  was  shown  into 


THE    DRAMATIST    WITH    THE     MANAGER.  131 

the  "  waiting-room  "  while  the  "  call-boy  "  took  up  his 
card.  The  waiting-room  of  Covent  Garden  is  not  illus- 
trious for  its  elegance.  It  looks  as  dismal  and  despair- 
ing as  the  poor  poets  and  unengaged  actors  condemned 
to  wait  there.  Two  or  three  rickety  cane  chairs,  onp 
table,  and  a  very  ancient  carpet,  constitute  the  per- 
manencies; while  variety  is  given  by  an  occasional 
violincello  case,  a  roll  of  music,  a  wet  umbrella,  or  a 
paper  of  sandwiches,  belonging  to  one  of  the  gentlemen 
of  the  orchestra. 

Seated  on  those  chairs,  or  looking  from  the  win- 
dow out  upon  the  paved  court-yard,  may  at  all  times 
be  seen  various  poets  and  farce-writers  waiting  to  see 
the  manager — to  have  an  answer  to  their  letters,  or  to 
get  back  the  unread  play ;  together  with  actors  and 
"  artistes,"  wives  of  chorus-singers,  attorneys'  clerks,  and 
creditors.  Everyone  looks  furtively  at  his  neighbor, 
and  wonders  "  who  the  devil  he  can  be?"  Silence  is 
mostly  kept ; — especially  by  the  authors,  who  are  afraid 
of  betraying  their  secret. 

Ranthorpe  had  not  waited  long  before  the  "  call- 
boy"  announced  to  him  that  Mr.  —  was  ready  to  see 
him.  He  followed  him,  accordingly,  up  a  murky  stone 
staircase,  on  which  he  met  several  of  the  actors  whom 
he  recognized,  and  soon  put  his  foot  upon  the  boards, 
having  been  duly  cautioned  to  "  look  out  for  traps." 
He  had  never  been  behind  the  scenes  before;  and  as 
he  marked  the  daubed  and  dirty  canvas  which  crowded 
the  back  part  of  the  stage,  he  wondered  at  ever  having 
been  delighted  with  such  things.  As  he  passed  down 
to  the  front,  and  saw  the  actors  at  rehearsal,  his  dis- 
enchantment was  complete.  He  had  believed  that 
rehearsals   were   studies :    that  actors  there   made  the 


132  RANTHORPE. 

experiments  in  their  art,  which  were  to  be  consummated 
on  the  stage.  He  was  not  a  little  disgusted  to  see  them 
with  their  hats  and  bonnets  on,  their  "parts"  in  their 
hands,  gabbling  through  their  speeches,  Uke  boys  and 
girls  impatient  to  be  out  of  school.  But  this  disen- 
chantment was  not  without  good  effect;  it  was  the 
key-note  to  his  interview  with  the  manager;  and  pre- 
pared him  to  hsten  with  more  patience  to  the  technical 
suggestions  which  were  offered. 

He  was  shown  into  the  manager's  room,  with  the 
information  that  Mr.  —  would  be  with  him  at  once. 
He  cast  his  eye  around  him,  had  only  time  to  notice  a 
cheval  glass,  over  which  hung  an  embroidered  dressing- 
gown,  and  against  which  leaned  a  stage-sword  ;  a  sofa 
strewed  with  newspapers  and  play-bills;  a  stage  edition 
of  Shakspeare,  Oxberry's  Acting  Drama,  some  old 
plays,  and  a  London  Directory,  huddled  together  on  a 
shelf.  Scarcely  had  he  scrutinized  these,  than  Mr.  — 
appeared,  and  shaking  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  de- 
clared he  was  dehghted  to  see  him. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Ranthorpe,"  he  said,  as  he  seated 
himself,  "  I  have  read  your  tragedy  with  attention — 
very  great  attention — and  I  can  truly  say,  that  I  was 
charmed  with  it — quite  charmed.  It  is  quite  a  treat  to 
me  to  see  such  a  play,  I  assure  you.  Fanciful  dia- 
logue— ideal  dialogue — "  and  he  looked  at  him  to  mark 
what  effect  this  flattery  might  have. 

"Ideal  dialogue,"  he  continued,  "powerful  language, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing — but  rather  too  long." 

"Too  long?" 

"  Rather — for  the  stage.  But  that  can  be  easily 
altered;  and  the  parts  quite  suit  our  company." 

"  I  shall  be  happy  to  shorten  it." 


THE    DRAMATIST    WITH    THE    MANAGER.  1 33 

"  There  will  be  a  great  many  trifling  alterations  nec- 
essary— mere  trifles — but  very  important  trifles  on  the 
stage.  Some  of  your  situations,  for  example,  are  im- 
practicable.^^    Here  he  detailed  some. 

"Impracticable!"  exclaimed  the  astonished  poet, 
"why  they  have  never  been  tried — they  are  original!" 

"  Yes :  perhaps  so,"  resumed  the  manager,  with 
complacency,  "but  original  situations  are  always  dan- 
gerous. Keep  to  what  has  been  tried,  and  proved 
successful — it  will  prove  so  again :  that  is  my  maxim ! " 

"  But  unless  certain  things  are  tried,  you  will  never 
know  whether  they  succeed  or  not." 

"  They  would  have  most  probably  been  tried  before 
now,  if  thought  well  of  Our  house  is  too  expensive  to 
be  a  school  for  experiments ;  we  cannot  afford  to  fail. 
I  always  wait  till  some  other  house  has  risked  a  novelty : 
if  it  fails,  I  rejoice  at  my  escape;  if  it  succeeds,  I  imi- 
tate it,  and  v/ork  it  till  the  public  declares  '  hold, 
enough.' " 

Ranthorpe  certainly  could  not  object  to  a  manager's 
taking  his  own  measures  for  making  money,  but  he 
rebelled  against  the  idea  of  making  art  subservient  to 
them. 

"What  you  say  is  perfectly  just,"  replied  Mr. — , 
"  respecting  the  play  as  a  literary  production ;  but  for 
the  stage,  other  necessities  are  to  be  attended  to.  Now 
you  have  three  Roman  soldiers,  who  only  come  on  in 
one  scene,  but  that  scene  is  important.  Nevertheless  it 
cannot  be  played,  because  I  should  have  to  put  three 
understrappers,  at  a  shilling  a  night,  into  those  parts,  and 
their  very  appearance  would  d — n  them." 

"  But  could  you  not  have  three  good  actors  ?" 

"Impossible:  they  would  not  play   the  parts:    fiot 


134  RANTHORPE. 

their  li?ie  /  Believe  me,  you  have  too  many  subordinate 
characters." 

"  Not  more,  I  think,  than  the  artistic  construction 
requires." 

"  For  the  stage,  unquestionably.  Allow  me  to  assure 
you,  as  the  result  of  long  experience,  that  minor  charac- 
ters are  the  ruin  of  half  the  plays.  Badly  performed, 
the  audience  never  takes  any  interest  in  them.  The 
laugh  which  precedes  damnation  always  begins  with 
them.  Depend  upon  it.  Sir,  that  Understrappers  are 
the  Small-pox  of  the  drama:  where  they  fail  to  kiti, 
they  leave  indelible  scars!''' 

Ranthorpe  laughed. 

"I  am  serious,"  continued  the  manager,  "What 
happened  to  us  the  other  day?  That  booby  B — was 
cast  for  Ratcliff^  in  *■  Richard  the  Third.'  You  must 
know  that  one  of  liis  illustrious  predecessors  playing  the 
part,  instead  of  answering  Richard's  'Who's  there?'  by 

'  Ratcliff,  my  lord,  'tis  I.     The  early  village  cock 
Hath  twice  done  salutation  to  the  mom.' 

was  so  troubled  by  Kean's  ferocious  look,  that  he  said, 

'  Tis  I,  my  lord,  the  early  inllage  cock  /' 

which  brought  down  the  house  in  one  shout  of  laughter. 
Well,  B — was  warned  of  this  mistake,  and  the  warning 
only  served  to  puzzle  him  the  more,  so  that  when  he 
got  on  the  stage,  and  Richard  screamed  '  Who's  there  ?' 
he  blurted  out — 

'  My  lord — there  are  cocks  in  the  village! , 

to  the  convulsion  of  the  audience." 

"That  only  proves  the  necessity,"  said  Ranthorpe, 
laughing,  "of  having  well-trained  actors  to  support  the 


REHEARSALS. 


35 


minor  characters,  and  not  the  necessity  of  expunging 
minor  characters  from  the  drama." 

They  then  went  over  the  play  together,  Mr.  M. — 
insisting  on  immense  alterations;  the  effect  of  which 
was  to  cut  out  all  originality,  and  reduce  it  to  a  piece, 
as  much  as  possible,  like  every  other  play  that  had  ever 
been  acted;  and  having  lopped  off  all  that  had  not 
been  represented  before,  the  manager  was  confident  of 
success ! 

The  poet  contested  several  points  very  stoutly;  but 
he  was  forced  to  succumb,  because  he  could  only  get 
his  tragedy  performed  on  condition  of  its  being  what 
the  manager  wanted,  and  not  what  had  been  written. 
With  a  heavy  heart  he  took  back  his  manuscript  to  use 
the  pruning  knife,  and  make  "the  necessary  alterations," 
and  almost  doubted  whether  it  would  be  worth  his  while 
to  have  a  mutilated  fragmentary  play  produced  at  all. 


CHAPTER     VIII. 

REHEARSALS. 

O,  there  be  players  that  I  have  seen  play — and  heard  others 
praise — not  to  speak  it  profanely,  that  neither  having  the  accent  of 
Christians,  nor  the  gait  of  Christian,  pagan,  or  man,  have  so  strutted 
and  bellowed  that  I  have  thought  some  of  nature's  journeymen  had 
made  men  and  not  made  them  well,  they  imitated  humanity  so 
abominably.  Hamlet. 

To  please  in  town  or  country,  the  way  is  to  cry,  wring,  cringe, 
into  attitudes,  mark  the  emphasis,  slap  the  pockets,  and  labor  like  one 
in  the  falling  sickness ;  that  is  the  way  to  work  for  applause;  that  is 
the  way  to  gain  it.  Goldsmith. 

Ranthorpe  spent  many  a  sleepless  night  in  effect- 
ing the  alterations  in  his  tragedy.  Managers  fancy  that 
alteration  must  be  an  easy  matter,  as  all  would  fancy 


136  RANTHORPE. 

who  had  never  tried;  but  every  work  that  is  really  a 
work  of  art,  costs  infinite  labor  in  the  altering.  I  do 
not  here  speak  of  the  repugnance  to  distort  the  work 
for  the  sake  of  theatrical  precedent.  I  mean  the  ab- 
solute intellectual  labor  of  re-arranging  materials,  or 
piecing  in  new  portions  with  the  old.  When  once  a 
conception  has  been  incarnated,  and  developed  in  all 
its  ramifications,  so  that  it  has  expanded  into  a  vital 
whole,  the  parts  of  which  are  dependent  yet  co?istituent — 
then  indeed  to  "alter;"  to  wrench  out  one  scene  or 
character;  to  give  a  different  turn  to  this  and  that  in- 
cident; in  order  to  "bring  them  up  to  situation,"  and 
from  this  mosaic  to  produce  a  whole;  it  is  not  only 
difficult,  it  is  almost  impossible. 

Thankless  was  the  toil  he  underwent;  but  it  made 
him  forget  his  sufferings:  it  directed  his  whole  thoughts 
to  his  play,  and  to  the  prospects  for  his  future  career 
opened  by  that  play.  His  alterations  completed,  he 
again  presented  himself  at  the  theatre,  and  was  received 
with  the  same  warmth  by  Mr. — ,  who  now  declared 
the  play  was  certain  of  success.  It  was  read  in  the 
green-room,  and  the  actors  were  all  in  its  favor.  No- 
thing could  exceed  their  enthusiasm — every  one  was 
confident  that  "the  town"  would  be  in  raptures.  In 
short,  as  so  often  happens,  a  second  Shakspeare  was 
about  to  revive  the  drooping  drama.  Theatrical  gossip 
was  full  of  the  new  play,  and  the  "Dramatic  Intel- 
ligence" in  the  Sunday  newspapers  was  in  mysterious 
ecstacies  of  anticipated  dehght. 

No  prospects  could  have  been  more  brilliant  than 
those  of  our  hero  for  the  success  of  his  piece,  and  he 
smiled  a  calm  reply  to  all  Bourne's  insinuations  respect- 
ing its  not  coming  out  at  all. 


REHEARSALS.  1 37 

"For  my  part,  I  tell  you  frankly,"  said  Bourne, 
"that  you  may  consider  yourself  a  lucky  dog  to  get 
your  play  read;  but — "  here  he  dropped  his  voice  to  a 
mellifluous  whisper;  "I  think  they  must  be  insane  if 
they  bring  it  out.  It  will  never  do — Roman  subjects 
don't  do.  Besides,  your  play  wants  situation.  My 
Rodolpho  had  a  tableau  at  the  end  of  each  act — and  a 
murder — yet  they  said  it  wanted  situation ! " 

Now  came  on  the  harassment  of  rehearsals.  He 
vv'as  forced  to  attend  them  all  for  his  own  sake,  as  he 
had  to  instruct  some  of  the  actors  in  the  right  pronun- 
ciation of  the  Roman  names,  and  some  few  English 
words.  There  was  one  most  desperate  cockney  who 
could  not  be  induced  to  call  "  Fulvia"  anything  but 
"  Fulviar  ;'*  another  had  got  iiTev<?cable  in  his  head, 
and  couldn't  get  it  out.  Whenever  Ranthorpe  quietly 
suggested  a  correction,  the  invariable  reply  was : 

"  Oh,  yes  !   I'll  be  sure  to  remember  it." 

There  was  another  who  could  not  be  made  to 
deliver  correctly  this  passage,  to  be  said  in  agitation : 

Fulvia  is  my  sister — true — 

But  why  am  I — her  brother — to  ])e  mixed — 

In  all  her  headstrong  plans  ? 

This  he  dehvered,  as, 

Fulvia  is  my  sister — true  ! 

But  why  am  I  her  brother  ? — to  be  mived 

In  all  her  headstrong  plans? — 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  observed  the  author,  biting 
his  lips ;  "  but  you  have  mistaken  my  meaning  in  that 
passage.  '■  But  why  am  I  ?'  a  slight  pause  after  '  I,'  if 
you  please,  to  denote  the  flurry  of  his  thoughts,  and 
then  resume  'her  brother' — then  another  slight  pause," 


138  RANTHORPE. 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean — 

Fulvia  is  my  sister — true  1 

But  why  ?  am  I  her  brother  ? — " 

"  No,  no,"  shouted  Ranthorpe ;  but  his  anger  was 
inaudible  in  the  laughter  with  which  this  reading  was 
received. 

These  were  not  the  only  torments ;  positive  blunders 
of  pronunciation  or  of  grammar  can  be  corrected ;  but 
blunders  of  emphasis,  and  more  especially  of  concep- 
tion, are  very  difficult  to  correct  in  an  actor  who,  as  he 
regards  the  literature  of  the  drama  solely  as  "  the  words" 
deems  his  duty  done  when  he  has  learnt  those  words. 

A  queer-looking  old  gentleman  in  a  scratch  wig  was 
generally  present  at  these  rehearsals,  which  he  seemed 
to  inspect  with  great  interest,  though  he  never  made 
any  remark.  But  he  used  to  eye  Ranthorpe  with  a 
rigid  scrutiny,  that  made  him  feel  very  uncomfortable. 
He  asked  one  or  two  of  the  actors  who  this  old  gentle- 
man was;  they  only  knew  his  name  was  Thornton,  and 
that  he  was  a  great  play-goer.  This  information  did 
not  satisfy  Ranthorpe,  who  could  see  no  connection  be- 
tween being  a  play-goer,  and  always  watching  him  so 
strangely. 

"  Nevertheless,  all  the  uneasiness  and  anger  pro- 
voked by  the  various  blunders  at  rehearsal,  were  dis- 
pelled as  the  poet  walked  home  and  saw  underlined 
on  the  play-bills  the  magic  words : 

In  rehearsal,  and  will  speedily  be  produced,  a  7iew 
Tragedy,  in  five  Acts. 

There  was  a  significant  mystery  in  the  announce- 
ment, and  as  he  saw  the  people  stop  to  read  it,  he 
moved  'away  with  a  sort  of  uncomfortable  conscious- 


REHEARSALS.  1 39 

ness,  not  unmixed  with  a  notion  that  everybody  must 
recognize  him  as  the  author  of  that  tragedy ;  and  when 
anybody  in  turning  from  the  bill  looked  him  in  the 
face,  he  blushed  involuntarily. 

To  have  a  play  in  rehearsal  1  Who  is  there  that  has 
not  speculated  on  the  glory  and  delight  of  such  an 
event  ?  Who  has  not  pictured  to  himself  what  his  feel- 
ings would  be  on  such  an  occasion  ? 

It  would  be  a  curious  morsel  of  moral  statistics  to 
calculate  the  number  of  human  minds  annually  inflated 
with  such  a  desire.  If  we  consider  that  every  man  who 
writes  at  all,  or  even  dabbles  in  literature,  has  at  one 
period  of  his  life  essayed  a  play,  and  then  take  pencil 
and  slate,  and  calculate  the  enormous  amount  of 
authors,  scribblers,  and  "  gentlemen  of  a  literary  turn," 
we  shall  be  able  to  work  out  a  tolerably  startling  sum 
of  would-be  dramatists. 

Every  one  of  these  men  has  had  more  or  less  the 
idea  of  having  his  play  performed;  and  although  many 
plays  are  "  written  solely  for  the  closet"  (when  the  stage 
has  refused  them),  yet  the  idea  of  a  rehearsal  must  have 
been  unanimously  entertained.  To  the  Thousand  and 
One  Knights  of  the  Drama,  therefore,  I  appeal  for  sym- 
pathy with  Ranthorpe's  feelings,  which  can  be  so  much 
more  easily  "  imagined  than  described." 

It  was  indeed  a  glorious  time  for  him — so  glorious 
as  almost  to  make  him  forget  the  want  of  /^^r  sympathy 
with  his  hopes  which  alone  could  have  made  his  felicity 
complete.  The  pubhc  were  now  informed  that  The  new 
Tragedy  of 

QUINTUS    CURTIUS 
will  be  produced  o?i  Thursday  next ;    supported  by  the 
entire  strength  of  the  company. 


140  I-IANTHORPE. 

On  Wednesday  afternoon,  however,  the  rehearsal  did 
not  go  off  so  gUbly  as  was  to  be  desired,  so  the  pubUc 
was  "  respectfully  informed  that,  owing  to  the  indisposi- 
tion of  a  Principal  Performer,  the  new  Tragedy  of 
QuiNTUs  CuRTius  is  unavoidably  postponed  till  Satur- 
day next;  when  it  will  positively  be  produced,  on  a 
scale  of  unexampled  splendor!" 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THE    TRAGEDY    IS    PERFORMED. 

Now  sits  Expectation  in  the  air  I 

Hknky  V. 

How  like  a  younker,  or  a  prodigal, 

The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay, 

Hugged  and  embraced  by  the  strumpet  wind  I 

How  Hke  a  prodigal  doth  she  return  ; 

With  overweather'd  ribs,  and  ragged  sails, 

Lean,  rent,  and  beggar'd  by  the  strumpet  wind! 

Merchant  of  Venick. 

The  Saturday  night  arrived.  There  was  considera- 
ble agitation  in  the  green-room,  as  is  customar}"  on 
"  first  nights,"  and  considerable  excitement  on  the  part 
of  Ranthorpe,  as  is  customar}^  with  authors.  He  flat- 
tered some,  and  counselled  others.  Fulvia's  brother 
absorbed  a  good  deal  of  his  attention;  and  he  endeav- 
ored to  make  that  gentleman  clearly  understand  that 
there  was  no  sort  of  question  wJiy  he  was  Fulvia's 
brother. 

The  afternoon  had  been  rainy,  and  had  only  cleared 
up  towards  sunset.  Every  cloud  had  been  scrutinized 
as  an  omen,  and  resented  as  an  insult;  every  streak  of 
blue  perceptible  in  the  sky  was  exaggerated  into  certain 


THE    IRAGEDY    IS    PERFORMEP.  I41 

evidence  of  clearing  up;  till  at  last  the  weather  did 
clear  up;  and  Pungent  told  him  that  was  a  most 
fortunate  occurrence,  that  afternoon  shower. 

"  Fortunate  !  pray  how  ?" 

"  Why  it  will  prevent  your  friends  from  being  re- 
marked." 

"  Really,  my  dear  Pungent,  I  don't  comprehend 
you." 

"  Why,  of  course,  you  have  a  tribe  of  friends  coming 
to  support  you,  and  whatever  the  weather,  friends 
always  bring  umbrellas.  Novv^  the  rain  will  bring  a 
number  of  umbrellas,  and  thus  conceal  your  friends  in 
the  crowd." 

"Ha!  ha!  well  thought  of,  Pungent;  but  I  have  no 
friends  in  the  house." 

''No  friends !"  said  the  incredulous  critic. 

"None:  I  determined  to  give  no  orders — to  ask  no 
friends.  I  want  to  have  the  unbiassed  judgment  of  the 
public.  I  want  the  success  of  my  first  night  to  be  as 
genuine  as  the  others." 

"My  dear  Ranthorpe,  your  romantic  notions  have 
undone  you.  Friends  are  the  necessary  counterbalance 
to  the  malevolence  always  awakened  on  a  first  night." 

"I  have  few  enemies." 

"Personally,  perhaps;  but  dramatically  a  vast  num- 
ber. The  case  stands  thus:  not  to  mention  personal 
foes,  there  are  always  a  number  of  envious  rascals  glad 
to  d — n,  they  care  not  whom;  to  these  add  all  the  d — d 
dramatists  —  and  all  the  friends  of  the  'other  house,' 
anxious  to  prevent  the  success  of  a  rival;  and  you  will 
find  yourself  with  a  tolerable  and  formidable  host  of 
opponents." 

"But  the  public?" 


142  RANTHORPE. 

"Why  the  pubUc  is  an  ass,  and  will  be  led  'as  ten- 
derly by  the  nose  as  asses  are.'  The  public  is  neither 
for  you  nor  against  you.  If  you  strike  its  fancy,  it  ex- 
aggerates your  merits;  if  you  happen  to  be  above  it,  or 
below  it,  you  are  lost.  But  I  was  hasty  in  saying  the 
public  is  neither  for  nor  against  you.  It  is  against  you. 
You  appeal  to  its  judgment — your  fate  is  in  its  hands— 
the  temptation  to  exhibit  its  judgment  and  power  is 
irresistible." 

"How  then  do  plays  succeed?" 

"By  friends:  judicious  friends.  Not  those  asses  who 
applaud  right  and  left:  but  friends  who  know  the  good 
parts,  and  shout  themselves  hoarse  at  them.  You  have 
exhibited  a  passion — the  public  wavers — knows  not  ex- 
actly whether  to  applaud  or  condemn — let  some  one 
commence  the  bravos,  and  down  comes  the  storm. 
This  is  the  use  of  friends:  they  give  the  public  courage 
to  applaud;  they  spur  hesitation." 

There  was  some  truth  in  this,  but  his  friend  could 
not  see  it;  he  trusted  to  the  force  of  his  play  to  carry 
the  audience  with  him;  and  cared  little  for  claqueurs  or 
cabals. 

Bourne  always  went  to  hiss;  and  every  "first  night" 
he  was  to  be  seen  in  a  side  box,  very  enthusiastic  in 
disapproval,  so  that  actors, 

"  Dreading  the  deep  damnation  of  his  '  Bah  ! ' 
Soprano,  basso,  tenor,  and  contralto, 
Wished  him  five  fathoms  under  the  Rialto." 

Ranthorpe  felt  very  uncomfortable  as  he  caught  the 
sharp  peering  glance  of  the  queer-looking  old  man 
whom  he  used  to  see  at  rehearsals.  He  could  not  ac- 
count for  the  uneasinesss  he  felt  at  his  appearance;  the 


THE  TRAGEDY  IS  PERFORMED.  143 

more  so  as  the  old  man's  glance,  though  inquisitive, 
was  kindly. 

The  overture  commenced;  the  theatre  began  to  fill; 
intellectual  heads  were  sprinkled  in  the  boxes;  critics 
nodded  to  each  other  and  smiled;  ladies  adjusted  their 
shawls,  and  crumpled  the  play-bills;  box  doors  opened 
and  shut  with  slams,  and  dandies  looked  round  the 
theatre  with  their  opera-glasses.  The  curtain  rose,  and 
the  audience  hustled  into  their  seats.  The  first  scene 
was  between  two  women,  and  was  accompanied  by  per- 
petual opening  and  shutting  of  doors,  varied  with  ex- 
clamations as  to  "First  party" — "Second  row" — '-'One 
front  and  one  second."  "Take  a  bill,  sir?"  "That  seat 
is  taken,  sir."  "Silence!"  "Hush!"  Of  course  this 
scene  escaped  unheard. 

In  the  second  scene  Quintus  Curtius  appeared. 
Mr. —  the  tragedian  being  a  great  favorite,  was  listened 
to  with  attention.  The  lady  who  played  the  heroine 
was  new  to  the  London  boards,  and  was  consequently 
very  timid.  Ranthorpe  was  in  a  fever  of  impatience, 
and  only  consoled  himself  by  the  rounds  of  applause 
which  greeted  two  or  three  bursts  of  poetry. 

The  act  ended,  leaving  the  public  in  a  pleasant  dis- 
position towards  the  author.  There  had  been  no  action; 
descriptions,  and  one  love-scene,  had  occupied  the  act ; 
but  audiences  are  tolerant  early  in  the  evening,  and 
consent  to  be  amused  with  poetry  alone;  and  it  was 
confessed  on  all  sides  that  "Quintus  Curtius"  was  full  of 
stately  and  elaborate  poetry,  often  rising  to  impassioned 
eloquence. 

The  regular  enemies,  and  malicious  friends,  con- 
tented themselves  with  remarking  tlie  want  of  action^^ 
and  looking  forward  to  the  third  act. 


144  -         RANTHORPE. 

I  may  as  well  here  give  a  slender  outline  of  the  plot, 
that  the  reader  may  more  clearly  understand  its  pro- 
gression. In  selecting  the  historical  anecdote  of  Quin- 
tus  Curtius,  he  had  availed  himself  of  the  dramatist's 
privilege  to  surround  that  anecdote  with  what  circum- 
stances he  pleased.  He,  therefore,  made  Quintus  in 
love  with  a  noble  Roman  maiden.  This,  with  some 
minor  details,  occupied  the  first  act.  In  the  second  the 
earthquake  occurred,  and  the  consternation  of  Rome 
was  at  its  height  as  the  curtain  fell.  In  the  third  act 
the  oracle  declared  that  the  earth  would  only  close  over 
the  body  of  some  Roman,  and  Quintus  offered  himself 
as  the  sacrifice.  The  fourth  act  was  occupied  with  the 
grief  of  his  mistress  and  his  mother  at  the  thought  of 
his  self-immolation,  and  their  attempts  to  dissuade  him 
from  it;  he  remaining  immovable  in  his  design,  yet 
bowed  somewhat  by  his  sorrow.  In  the  fifth  act  some 
of  the  people  taunted  him  with  the  delay,  and  told  him 
that  the  earth  still  yawned.  He  parted  fi-om  his  love — 
more  like  one  going  to  conquest.  The  leap  was  not 
represented,  but  described  by  the  mother  of  Quintus 
looking  out :  the  heroine  listening  to  her  narrative  in 
agonized  suspense.  A  shout  proclaimed  the  leap  to  be 
taken,  and  the  curtain  fell. 

This  is  the  skeleton  of  the  play.  The  reader  sees 
how  deficient  it  is  in  substance  for  five  acts;  a  deficiency 
Ranthorpe  himself  v/ould  have  seen,  had  he  not  been 
deluded  by  his  own  delight  in  the  mere  poetry,  and  be- 
lieved that  to  be  an  efficient  substitute  for  action. 

We  may  now  let  the  curtain  rise  for  the  second  act. 
This,  though  written  with  the  same  vigor  and  beauty  as 
the  former  one,  was  received  with  visible  weariness; 
people  had  got  tired  of  speeches  and  descriptions,  and 


THE  TRAGEDY  IS  PERFORMED.  I45 

showed  such  signs  of  this,  that  some  of  the  enemies 
thought  a  hiss  might  be  ventured  upon  it. 

"Silence!  silence!  turn  him  out,"  instantly  resounded 
from  all  parts  of  the  house,  as  the  ill-timed  hissing  be- 
gan. The  public  had  not  yet  rescinded  its  judgment; 
and  though  not  approving  of  this  act,  yet  (when  the 
hissing  commenced)  it  applauded  vehemently,  out  of 
contradiction.  Upon  this  applause  came  a  magnificent 
description  of  the  earthquake,  which  made  the  "  um- 
brellas "  uproarious;  and  when  the  consternation  and 
well-grouped  confusion  of  the  Roman  citizens,  escaping 
from  the  yawning  horror,  formed  a  "  situation  "  for  the 
act  to  end  with,  then  indeed  were  the  umbrellas  ex- 
cited— then  did  the  sticks  approve  dogmatically,  and 
hands  tingle  with  real  admiration,  and  voices  were 
husky  with  bravos ! 

^'  Wait  till  the  third  act,"  replied  the  adverse  party. 

The  author's  feelings  during  the  second  act  it  would 
be  difficult  to  paint.  It  is  a  bitter  lesson  of  his  errors 
that  a  man  learns  when  first  he  sees  his  play  represented. 
When  he  sees  the  weaknesses  which  he  had  slurred  over 
with  impatience,  and  which  he  would  not  see  to  be 
weak,  now  brought  before  the  audience  in  all  their 
nakedness.  Passages  which  he  had  quahfied  as  those 
of  "  necessary  repose,"  becoming  on  the  stage  those  of 
unnecessary  tediousness — the  "quieter  parts"  becoming 
the  sleepy  ones.  This  the  poet  now  for  the  first  time 
felt ;  he  saw  his  error,  and  cursed  it,  because  now  irre- 
trievable; and  he  noted  the  silence  and  impatience  of 
the  audience,  by  no  means  grateful  for  "  the  repose  "  he 
had  afforded  them. 

What  made  it  worse,  was,  that  the  actors  saw  this 
also.     They  are  the  first  to  feel  whether  a  play  is  going- 


146  RANTHORPK. 

well  or  ill,  and  are  the  first  to  be  depressed.  By  the 
end  of  this  second  act,  they  had  very  strong  suspicions 
that  this  "  new  Shakspeare  "  was  a  nobody. 

The  third  act — the  act  began — enemies  were  eager 
and  expectant.  It  opened  with  "repose,"  and  the 
enemies  chuckled,  making  very  audible  references  to 
bringing  night-caps,  and  to  the  effect  of  narcotics.  The 
public  was  also  somewhat  impatient.  At  this  period 
Fulvia's  brother  appeared,  and  the  author  trembled. 
This  unfortunate  actor  was  gifted  with  a  pair  of  cruelly 
bandy  legs,  and  a  broken  nose;  so  that  the  Roman 
costume  did  not  become  him,  or  rather  he  did  not  be- 
come the  Roman  costume.  The  audience  giggled; 
when  he  spoke,  they  laughed — for  his  helmet  was 
fastened  so  tightly  that  he  could  scarcely  move  his 
chin,  and  his  elocution  suffered  from  its  effects.  Being 
laughed  at  does  not  increase  an  actor's  confidence,  and 
our  friend  had  become  highly  nervous  by  the  time 
he  arrived  at  the  dreaded  passage,  and  he  stuttered 
forth : 

'  Fulvia  is  my  sister — true  ! 
But — am  I  her  brother  ?     To  be  mixed — ' 

A  yell  of  derision  interrupted  him,  and  Ranthorpe 
sank  back  in  the  box  in  utter  despair;  he  felt  that  now 
the  laughter  had  begun,  nothing  could  save  his  play. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Quintus  himself  appeared,  the 
tittering  continued,  for  Fulvia's  brother  remained  upon 
the  stage,  and  the  very  sight  of  him  was  the  signal  for 
laughter.  Now  the  storm  began,  and  ridicule  and  in- 
sult followed  every  speech ;  the  piece  was  fast  falling, 
when  it  was  saved  by  the  energy  of  Quintus,  offering 
liimself  as  saviour  of  his  country.    This  was  a  fine  situa- 


thp:  tragedy  is  performed.  147 

tion,  and  gloriously  acted ;  the  splendor  of  the  diction, 
the  earnestness  of  the  sentiments,  and  the  force  of  the 
acting,  quite  turned  the  tide  in  its  favor,  and  the  curtain 
fell  amidst  prolonged  shouts,  which  drowned  the  groans 
and  hisses  of  the  enemies.  The  pit  became  the  scene 
of  animated  discussion  during  the  ejitr'acte^  and  the  ad- 
verse party  had  a  desperate  battle  to  fight 

The  fourth  act  began  with  animation,  and  soon 
changed  into  pathos ;  but  it  fell  off  subsequently,  and 
when  the  mother  and  the  mistress  of  Quintus  began 
their  lamentations,  the  weakness  of  the  scene  was  again 
heightened  by  the  in  efficacy  of  the  acting,  the  gig- 
gling recommenced.  This  giggling  agitated  Fulvia  so 
much,  that  she  lost  all  confidence,  and  with  her  con- 
fidence all  remembrance  of  her  part.  Small  blunders 
passed  unobserved — greater  ones  were  laughed  at — but 
the  "  worst  was  still  to  come."  When  Quintus  replied 
to  her  entreaties  that  he  had  sworn  to  fulfil  his  vow  and 
sacrifice  himself,  she  forgot  the  speech  of  passionate  en- 
treaty which  was  to  follow,  and  exclaimed : 

'  What,  leave  me  ! — oh  !' 

She  then  stopped,  unable  further  to  improvise,  and 
too  agitated  to  hear  the  prompter ;  urged  by  the  titter- 
ing public  to  proceed,  she  added : 

'  Oh  ! — please,  don't !' 

and  "  inextinguishable  laughter  shook  "  the  house. 

From  this  moment  there  was  no  cessation;  the 
storm  raged  with  all  the  violence  of  a  public  that  has 
found  out  its  mistake,  and  is  anxious  to  atone  for  it. 
Peals  of  laughter,  yells,  shrieks,  shrillest  whistling,  hoot- 
ing, slang,  popular  catchwords,  mocking  "  bravos  "  and 


148  RANTHORPE. 

"  go  its,"  accompanied  every  scene.  That  great  Levi- 
athan, the  public,  took  a  savage  pleasure  in  tearing  the 
author  to  pieces.  Many  causes  might  have  been  de- 
tected for  the  violence  of  the  uproar.  First,  seeking 
that  sensation  in  damning  the  play,  which  the  play 
itself  had  refused  to  excite;  secondly,  there  was  the 
exaggeration  of  emulation  in  obloquy — there  was  re- 
venge, for  having  paid  their  money  for  amusement,  and 
not  being  amused ;  and,  thirdly,  there  was  the  delight 
in  an  uproar,  which  is  always  grateful  to  human  beasts 
of  all  ages  and  nations. 

The  actors  came  on,  and  opened  their  mouths,  and 
''  sawed  the  air  with  their  arms,"  but  not  a  word  was 
audible;  for  the  thunder  of  the  gods  and  the  yells  of 
the  pit  drowned  every  noise  but  their  own.  Thus  ended 
the  fourth  act,  to  the  great  amusement  of  the  audience. 

Ranthorpe  was  nowhere  to  be  found ! 

The  curtain  rose  for  the  last  time,  but  it  was  only 
the  signal  for  the  storm  to  recommence.  In  vain  did 
the  manager  step  forward  and  request  the  audience  to 
suspend  their  judgment  till  the  play  was  ended;  they 
applauded  him,  and  laughed  at  the  actors. 

Louder  and  louder  grew  the  storm  with  every  suc- 
ceeding scene,  and  the  din  became  so  fearful,  that  many 
left  the  house,  and  some  of  the  bawlers  could  not  hear 
their  own  voices. 

Amidst  this  uproar  the  curtain  fell ;  and  then  arose 
a  mocking  shout  for  "  the  author!  the  author!"  After 
which  the  delighted  damners  rushed  into  the  Albion,  to 
discuss  the  exquisite  joke  over  "  kidneys  and  a  pint  of 
stout;"  or  went  home  to  report  the  failure  to  their 
wives  and  families. 

The  manager  was  sick  with  disgust ;  resolved  never 


ASPIRATION    AND    INSPIRATION. 


149 


to  bum  his  fingers  again  with  '^  that  d — d  humbug,  the 
legitimate  drama,"  but  to  spend  his  money  upon  spec- 
tacles and  ballets — a  resolution  he  faithfully  performed, 
till  the  Bench  relieved  him  of  his  arduous  duties,  and 
Basinghall  Street  released  him  from  his  creditors. 


CHAPTER  X. 

ASPIRATION    AND    INSPIRATION. 

For  when  sad  thoughts  perplex  the  mind  of  man 
There  is  a  plummet  in  the  heart  that  weighs 
And  pulls  us,  living,  to  the  dust  we  came  from. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

Hence  doth  spring  the  well  from  which  doth  flow 
The  dead  black  streams  of  mourning,  plaints  and  woe. 
Ferrex  and  Porrex. 

What  mortal  in  the  world,  if  without  inward  calling  he  take  up  a 
trade,  an  art,  or  any  other  mode  of  life,  will  not  feel  his  situation  mis- 
erable? But  he  who  is  born  with  capacities  for  any  undertaking, 
finds  in  executing  this  the  fairest  portion  of  his  being.  Nothing  upon 
earth  without  its  difficulties  !  It  is  the  secret  impulse  within  ;  it  is  the 
love  and  the  dehght  we  feel,  that  help  us  to  conquer  obstacles,  to  clear 
out  new  paths,  and  to  overleap  the  bounds  of  that  narrow  circle  in 
which  others  poorly  toil. 

Wilhelm  Meister.     (Carlyle's  translation.) 

And  what  were  the  author's  feehngs  on  hurrying 
from  the  theatre  ?  He  wandered,  unconscious  whither 
his  footsteps  led  him,  brooding  on  the  sadness  which 
assailed  his  heart.  All  his  brilliant  visions  were  shat- 
tered like  glass — all  his  ambitious  hopes  were  crushed. 

His  tragedy,  upon  which  so  much  was  staked,  had 
failed;  and  although  he  knew  that  much  of  the  disap- 
probation had  been  excited  by  the  absurdities  of  the 
actors,  yet  he  could  not  lay  the  whole  burden  of  the 


150  RANTHORPE. 

failure  upon  them.  Had  they  been  competent,  had 
they  known  their  parts,  his  play  would  have  been 
received  with  more  kindness,  perhaps,  but  would  not 
have  succeeded.  He  had  seen  the  torrent  of  ridicule 
arrested  by  a  single  speech,  and  laughter  converted  into 
enthusiastic  applause  by  the  conclusion  of  the  third  act. 
The  fault  of  his  play  was  in  its  not  having  sustained 
interest.  When  the  minds  of  the  audience  are  unin- 
terested, they  are  ready  to  pounce  upon  any  imperfec- 
tion, and  convert  it  into  amusement. 

Ranthorpe  felt  that  he  had  failed  because  he  de- 
served to  fail.  His  reflections  were  most  poignant. 
No  failure  is  so  palpable,  crushing,  irredeemable,  as  the 
failure  of  a  play.  Other  works  are  neglected;  plays  are 
energetically  said  to  be  d — d.  Ranthorpe's  self-love 
was  therefore  sorely  lacerated.  But  this  was  not  all : 
something  far  deeper  than  literary  vanity  was  hurt. 
The  failure  seemed  to  him  a  revelation  of  the  inanity  of 
all  his  dreams — an  irresistible  proof  that  he  had  mis- 
taken Aspiration  for  Inspiration. 

This  mistake  is  common  enough,  and  dangerous; 
but  when  the  unhappy  wight  awakens  to  a  sense  of 
his  error,  it  is  fatal.  So  long  as  the  delusion  be  con- 
tinued, it  will  be  a  fountain  of  happiness  to  sustain  the 
thirsting  heart.  A  man  will  bear  all  privation  and  all 
neglect,  if  he  can  but  believe  himself  to  be  simply  neg- 
lected, not  ivasted.  But  once  let  him  perceive  that  his 
life  has  been  wasted  on  a  chimera — that  his  energies 
have  been  squandered  to  make  him  ridiculous — that  the 
light  he  has  followed  is  no  real  star  glimmering  in  the 
heavens,  but  only  a  will-o'-wisp  dancing  over  murky 
fens  and  bogs — once  let  him  perceive  this,  and  the  bloom 
and  beauty  of  life  are  shrivelled  up  for  ever. 


ASPIRATION    AND    INSPIRATION.  151 

Yet  there  have  been  few  men  of  genius,  I  fancy,  who 
have  not  had  their  moments  of  despondency.  Exalted 
by  the  contemplation  of  Beauty,  and  the  harmonious 
witcheries  of  Proportion,  they  have  looked  upon  their 
own  efforts  with  disgust;  aspiring  after  perfection  they 
have  doubted  their  capacity  to  attain  it,  and  questioned 
themselves  narrowly  as  to  whether  they  have  not  mis- 
taken the  aspiration,  common  to  so  many,  for  the  inspira- 
tion given  to  so  few.  The  very  superiority  of  mind 
which  enables  them  to  conceive  perfection,  only  the 
more  readily  detects  the  distance  which  separates  their 
works  from  it. 

In  these  moments  of  despondency,  when  with  bitter 
irony  a  man  interrogates  himself  and  says — am  I  what 
I  thought  myself?  and  receives  only  dark,  vague  an- 
swers— then,  should  failure  come  as  confirmation,  the 
thought  of  suicide  arises,  and  is  eagerly  clutched  at  by 
despair.  To  such  despondency  a  few  noble  spirits  have 
succumbed :  spirits  who  had  endured  the  goading  evils 
of  poverty,  envy,  and  neglect — endured  them  to  a 
frightful  extent,  but  never  suffered  them  to  quell  their 
giant  energies. 

They  wrong  us  who  believe  we  quail  before  the  ordi- 
nary ills  of  life !  We  have  more  than  a  common  courage 
to  endure ;  the  history  of  our  heroic  predecessors  amply 
shows  it.  Our  lives  are  chequered ;  but  because  our 
path  is  on  the  stony  highway,  where  thorns  and  flints 
pierce  our  bleeding  feet,  have  we  turned  aside  ?  Have 
we  ceased  the  combat  when  wounded  ?  No;  if  the  path 
be  stony,  are  there  not  flowers  growing  on  the  hedge  ? 
If  the  path  be  dark  before  us,  have  we  not  an  inner 
lamp  to  guide  us  safely  onwards?  Ay;  a  lamp  whose 
smallest  glimmer  irradiates  the  world  with  beauty  !    By 


152  RANTHORPE. 

its  light  we  walk,  and  walk  cheerily;  by  its  rays  we  are 
warmed  and  gladdened  in  the  depth  of  winter  nights, 
when  perhaps  the  last  dying  embers  flicker  on  our  deso- 
late hearths.  We  may  be  poor,  but  we  are  never 
abject ;  we  may  be  neglected,  but  we  are  not  unhappy 
until  we  neglect  ourselves !  It  is  only  when  this  inner 
lamp  is  quenched,  or  when  we  look  on  it  as  some  false 
will-o'-wisp,  that  all  the  glory  of  our  mission  fades 
away;  and  then  what  wonder  if  we  arrest  our  steps  and 
die  blaspheming?  Answer,  Chatterton!  Gilbert!  Hay- 
don  ! 

To  have  passed  a  life  of  cherished  hopes  and  vision- 
ary efforts,  and  to  find  at  last  that  they  were  based  on  air ! 
To  have  forsaken  all  this  bounteous  world  affords,  to 
feed  the  hungriest  vanity,  or  greediest  sense,  and  to  find 
that  you  have  been  a  dupe,  a  miserable  dupe!  To  hear 
the  ceaseless  roll  of  waters  as  they  break  upon  the  shore, 
and  know  how  great  the  busy  joyous  world  they  speak 
of;  yet  to  feel  like  some  poor  stranded  bark  that  had 
tempted  the  rough  waves  in  youthful  confidence,  and 
now  lies  broken  and  deserted  on  them !  To  feel  that 
everywhere  around  you,  men  are  happy,  busy,  and  you 
alone  without  an  aim — you  alone  purposeless,  hopeless, 
Vjoyless — you  alone  wasted  I  And  in  this  despondency 
to  recall  the  delicious  reveries  and  bounding  hopes 
which  once  were  yours ;  to  recall  the  lonely  walks,  on 
summer  eves,  along  sequestered  streams,  where  your 
busy  fancy  struck  out  many  a  gilded  pageant  of  the 
future ;  to  recall  your  midnight  studies,  when  with  bum- 
ing  head  and  aching  eyes  you  peered  into  the  secrets  of 
the  great  Departed;  and  then  to  look  upon  your  present 
state,  aimless  and  joyless !  To  awaken  from  the  dream 
of  life  to  find  that  inner  lamp  was  false,  a  mockery  of 


DESPAIR. 


153 


your  hopes !      This  is   misery — this  is   despair  mighty 
enough  to  quell  the  stoutest  heart ! 

And  this  despair  seized  Percy  Ranthorpe,  and  he  re- 
solved to  die ! 


CHAPTER     XI. 

DESPAIR. 

A  me  non  ride 
L'aprico  marg-o,  e  dall'  eterea  porta 
II  mattutino  albor ;  me  non  il  canto 
De'  colorati  augelli,  e  non  de'  faggi 
II  murmure  saluta :  e  dove  all'  ombra 
Deir  inchinati  salici  dispiega 
Candido  rivo  il  puro  seno,  al  mio 
Lubrico  pie  le  flessviose  linfe 
Disdegnando  sottragge, 
E  preme  in  fuga  1'  odorate  spiagge. 

GlACOMO   Leopardi  :   Crirti. 

The  streets  were  noisy ;  life,  in  its  myriad  aspects, 
appeared  to  the  wretched  poet,  insolent  and  hideous. 
He  strode  along  the  streets  with  bitterness  at  heart,  and 
defiance  in  his  look.  Several  chemists'  shops  had  he 
passed,  because  in  each  he  saw  some  customer,  and  he 
felt  ashamed  to  ask  for  poison  in  the  presence  of  an- 
other. 

Having  in  his  wanderings  reached  Wellington  Street, 
he  at  once  bethought  him  of  the  Thames.  He  passed 
on  to  Waterloo  Bridge,  and  sat  himself  down  in  one  of 
the  recesses,  to  wait  until  midnight  had  cleared  the 
bridge  of  all  passengers. 

The  night  was  dark  and  cheerless.  The  rain  began 
to  pour  down  with  steady  vehemence.  The  passengers 
became  rarer  and  rarer.     The  hour  drew  near. 


154  RANTHORPE. 

The  time  flew  rapidly  for  him,  although  he  was 
waiting.  Plunged  in  thought — and  that  of  the  bitterest 
kind — he  conjured  up  before  him  the  phantoms  of  de- 
parted hopes,  contrasting  them  with  the  realities  which 
subdued  him.  His  lot  seemed  hopeless.  Isola  lost. 
His  literary  career  was  blighted.  He  had  failed ;  and 
justly.  He  felt  that  he  had  not  genius  enough  to  cope 
with  the  world,  and  had  not  strength  enough  to  endure 
failure. 

The  clock  struck  one,  before  he  was  aware  of  its 
being  already  midnight.  This  recalled  him  to  himself. 
Looking  carefully  around  him,  and  seeing  no  one  on 
the  bridge,  he  climbed  upon  the  parapet.  In  another 
instant  he  would  have  quitted  this  intolerable  world ; 
and  the  thought  was  bitterly  sweet  to  him ! 

Before  he  could  take  the  final  leap  he  was  pulled 
violently  to  the  ground,  and  on  springing  to  his  feet 
again,  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  queer-looking 
old  man  Avhom  he  had  seen  so  often  at  the  theatre. 

"  Young  man,"  said  he,  brusquely,  "  before  you  quit 
this  world  so  ignominiously,  answer  me :  have  you 
done  anything  which  could  make  your  life  more  igno- 
minious still  ?  " 

"  What  right  have  you  to  question  me  ?"  answered 
Ranthorpe,  angrily  and  haughtily. 

*'  Never  mind  the  right,  say  it  is  might.  I  choose 
to  do  it." 

"  Leave  me,  sir,  I  insist  upon  it." 

"  Not  L     You  shall  listen  to  me." 

"  Are  you  insane,  that  you  would  trifle  thus  with  a 
desperate  man  ?  " 

**  Bah  !  You  know  that  if  I  choose  to  alarm  the 
police  you  will  be  taken  before  the  magistrate  for  your 


DESPAIR. 


55 


present  attempt.  You  see  I  wish  you  well;  so  be 
quiet.  Now  answer  me:  have  you  dishonored  your 
name  ?  have  you  done  that  which  should  make  you 
shun  the  society  of  honest  men  ?  If  so,  quit  this  honest 
world  at  once.     I  will  not  bid  you  stay  !  Bah !  " 

Ranthorpe's  anger  was  roused,  and  yet  he  felt 
strangely  subdued  by  the  old  gentleman's  sharp,  short, 
brusque,  honest  manner.  There  was  something  at 
once  commandiftg  and  amiable  about  him,  which  made 
Ranthorpe  listen  to  him. 

"■  Come,  answer  me." 

*'  Well,  then,  no :  I  have  done  nothing  dishon- 
orable." 

"  Then  what  makes  you  quit  an  honorable  world  ?" 

Ranthorpe  was  silent. 

"Well,  what  answer?"  imperiously  demanded  the 
Mttle  man. 

"  I  am  weary  of  life,"  replied  Ranthorpe,  forced  to 
speak. 

''  At  your  age  ?  Bah  !  Your  play  has  failed,  and 
you  fear  the  ridicule  attached  to  failure  ?  " 

Ranthorpe  assented. 

''  And  don't  you  see  that  you  make  yourself  ten 
times  more  ridiculous  by  taking  failure  to  heart  ?  If  to 
fail  is  weak — what  is  it  to  commit  suicide  on  that  ac- 
count ?  Pitiable !  Contemptible  !     Bah  ! " 

And  in  spite  of  Ranthorpe's  mingled  anger  and 
shame,  the  old  gentleman  put  his  arm  within  his,  and 
hurried  him  away,  talking  all  the  time  in  an  energetic, 
abrupt  manner. 

**  Don't  let  me  hear  of  such  trash !  Failure,  what  is 
it  ?  A  proof  of  incapacity  ?  No ;  not  a  bit !  only  a 
proof  that  the  audience  and  you  are  in  different  regions, 


156  RANTHORPE. 

and  don't  understand  each  other.  Yours  may  be  the 
region  of  darkness,  certainly;  but  it  may  also  be  the 
region  of  such  brilliant  light  that  the  boobies  can  no 
more  see  in  it,  than  they  can  in  darkness :  too  much 
light  is  intolerable  to  owls.  Who  knows  whether  your 
failure  be  not  more  glorious  than  success  ?  Bah !  Did 
not  the  whole  of  the  Philharmonic  orchestra  burst  out 
into  laughter  the  first  time  they  played  Beethoven  ? 
Was  Beethoven  then  a  paper-blotter,  or  a  genius  ? 
What  did  their  laughter  prove  ? — Their  ignorance  ! 
Bah !  "  And  with  this  short,  sharp  ''  bah  !  "  the  little 
man  seemed  to  settle  the  whole  question. 

"  But  alas!  I  have  not  that  consolation,"  said  Ran- 
thoq^e.     "  I  feel  that  my  tragedy  deserved  to  fail." 

"  Pooh !  you  don^^  feel  anything  of  the  kind !  No 
author  ever  did.  The  more  the  people  damn,  the  more 
the  author  prizes  his  work.     So  do  you ;  bah  ! " 

"  I  assure  you  I  speak  truly.  Performance  destroyed 
my  illusions;  made  me  distinctly  see  the  feebleness  of 
my  play.  This  tells  me  that  I  have  mistaken  my  call- 
ing. I  have  a  poet's  ambition,  but  not  the  poet's 
genius." 

"  Wrong !  If  you  really  see  the  faults  of  your  play, 
that  proves  that  you  are  superior  to  it.  Understand ! 
superior  to  your  failure — ergo,  capable  of  success !  I 
had  a  play  d — d  once  myself;  didn't  like  it — but  didn't 
despair,  bah  !     Try  again ;  and  don't  be  a  coward  !" 

"  A  coward !" 

"  Coward !  I  won't  eat  my  words.  A  man  who 
cannot  endure  failure,  is  an  ass ;  the  man  who  cannot 
face  adversity,  is  a  coward.  You  are  neither;  you  are 
only  led  away  by  a  moment's  ill-temper.  That's  paltry, 
pitiable !" 


DESPAIR. 


157 


Ranthorpe  felt  he  was  at  a  disadvantage,  and  to  ex- 
cuse himself  in  tlie  opinion  of  his  strange  antagonist,  he 
informed  him  that  the  failure  of  his  play  was  only  the 
last  drop  that  had  filled  the  measure  of  his  cup ;  and 
that  life  had  now  no  charm,  no  hope  for  him. 

His  voice  v/as  so  sad  as  he  said  this,  that  the  little 
old  man  stopped  suddenly  to  look  at  him;  and  then  said: 

"  That's  different.  Open  your  heart  to  me.  Tell 
me  your  story.  I'm  but  a  poor  comforter;  but  there  is 
always  comfort  in  talking  of  one's  sorrow.  It  makes 
the  heart  wander  from  its  deeper  woe ;  as  somebody 
says.  Here  we  are  at  my  house.  Accept  my  hos- 
pitality, will  you  ?     That's  right." 

Marvelling  at  the  power  acquired  over  him  by  this 
strange  being,  and  at  the  curious  denouement  which 
seemed  to  present  itself,  Ranthorpe  ascended  the  stairs 
with  his  new  friend,  and  entered  a  handsomely-furnished 
but  somewhat  bachelor-looking  room,  adorned  with  en- 
gravings, busts,  casts,  and  books  which  indicated  a  cer- 
tain culture  in  the  possessor. 

'•  Bring  tumblers  and  hot  water,"  said  the  little  man 
to  the  servant;  and  when  she  had  left  the  room  he 
turned  to  Ranthorpe,  and  said,  "  you  smoke  ?" 

Ranthorpe  nodded;  but  was  perfectly  amazed  at  the 
calm,  matter-of-fact  manner  in  which  the  question  was 
put.  He  began  to  have  suspicions  of  the  little  man's 
sanity.  But  he  saw  him  proceed  about  every  thing  in 
the  most  orderly  style.  The  spirit  decanters,  lemons, 
sugar,  and  all  necessary  materials  for  making  punch, 
were  soon  on  the  table.  A  box  of  excellent  cigars  was 
produced.  In  a  little  while  a  bowl  of  punch,  hriclc\ 
was  flaming  on  the  table;  and  the  little  man  ladling  it 
out  calmly,  bade  Ranthorpe  taste  it. 


158  RANTHORPK. 

**  It's  from  a  famous  receipt  I  got  in  Germany.  No- 
thing like  it  elsewhere.     Bah !" 

Ranthorpe  tasted  it ;  pronounced  it  delicious :  lit  a 
cigar ;  ensconced  himself  in  an  easy-chair,  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  himself  in  a  most  unromantic  and  un- 
despairing  mood  of  mind.  He  had  been  gradually 
dragged  down  to  earth,  by  the  sharp  good  sense  and 
imperturbable  calmness  of  his  new  friend.  And  the 
soothing  influence  of  tobacco,  quickly  completed  what 
the  old  man  had  begun. 

Yes,  there  was  no  disguising  it  from  himself, — he 
was  saved.  The  idea  of  suicide  was  supremely  ridicu- 
lous in  a  man  thus  enjoying  the  common  enjoyments  of 
the  world.  And  as  he  gazed  at  his  queer-looking  friend, 
upon  whose  face  the  purple  flames  of  the  burning  punch 
threw  a  fantastic  light,  and  saw  the  calm  content  with 
which  he  was  inhaling  the  fragrance  of  the  soothing 
weed,  he  felt  that,  for  the  present  at  least,  he  must  re- 
linquish all  idea  of  suicide.  To  rush  from  the  scene  of 
your  ruined  hopes,  and  in  desperation  die,  is  a  foolish, 
but  at  least  intelligible  act.  But  after  failure,  to  sit 
quietly  down  in  an  easy-chair  with  a  bowl  of  punch  be- 
tween you  and  your  companion,  and  a  cigar  in  your 
mouth,  and  to  rise  from  this  to  commit  suicide,  would  be 
too  supremely  laughable  and  contemptible.  He  felt  this  ; 
for  the  ridiculous  side  of  things  rarely  escapes  imagina- 
tive people;  and  no  man  intentionally  would  mar  the 
solemnity  of  his  suicide. 

And  well  aware  v/as  the  little  old  man  of  the  inevi- 
table effect  of  his  manoeuvres;  for  a  more  sagacious  head 
was  never  united  to  a  kinder  heart,  than  in  the  person 
of  Richard  Thornton.  As  I  said,  he  was  a  queer-look- 
ing little    old  fellow;    and  queer  were  his  ways.      A 


DKSPAIR. 


59 


scratch-wig,  which  had  never  exhibited  any  lofty  pre- 
tensions to  verisimihtude  or  coquetry,  sat  carelessly 
upon  a  large  head,  the  face  being  somewhat  wizen  and 
wrinkled.  His  eyes  were  brilliant,  and  shaded  by  thick 
shaggy  brows ;  his  nose  would  have  been  handsome, 
had  it  not  been  so  pinched  in  at  the  nostrils;  his  mouth 
was  small,  the  upper-lip  short  and  curved,  betokening 
a  turn  for  irony.  His  complexion  was  somewhat  snuff- 
colored;  his  coat  was  of  a  dark  snuff-color;  his  waist- 
coat ditto;  and  altogether  his  appearance  was  quaint, 
yet  prepossessing.  His  manner  was  a  strange  mixture 
of  fidgettiness,  imperiousness,  and  tenderness.  He  was 
evidently  an  old  bachelor — had  been  a  spoiled  child — 
and  had  an  overflowing  source  of  benevolence  in  his 
heart. 

The  sympathy  he  had  from  the  first  felt  with  Ran- 
thorpe,  when  he  saw  his  play  rehearsing,  had  been  in- 
creased by  finding  that  he  was  the  author  of  "  The 
Dreams  of  Youth,"  which  were  favorites  with  the  old 
gentleman;  and  his  own  experience  of  failure  made  him 
at  once  the  friend  of  every  unsuccessful  dramatist.  This 
will  explain  the  scrutiny  with  which  Ranthorpe  had 
been  so  displeased  during  rehearsals.  He  was  trying 
to  guess  what  strength  the  poet  showed  capable  of  sup- 
porting failure,  if  he  should  fail ;  and  the  result  of  his 
scrutiny  was  so  unfavorable,  that  he  watched  Ranthorpe 
from  the  theatre,  and  followed  him,  shrewdly  suspecting 
his  intention. 

They  discussed  the  punch  and  the  cigars,  and  talked 
of  Germany,  as  if  they  were  old  friends.  Mr.  Thornton 
had  lived  at  Weimar,  and  had  known  Goethe,  of  whom 
he  loved  to  speak. 

"Ah!    he  was  a  man;    emphatically   a   man.       He 


l6o  KANTHORPE. 

looked  like  a  god,  and  the  people  always  spoke  of  him 
as  the  German  Jupiter;  not  simply  because  of  his  ma- 
jestic presence,  but  because  of  the  calm  mastery  over  all 
the  storms  of  life  which  was  written  on  his  brow.  Na- 
poleon, when  he  saw  him,  said  with  reverence  ^  Cest  im 
honime.^  " 

"  He  seems  to  have  been  cold  and  calculating,"  said 
Ranthorpe. 

"Seems  io you;  perhaps  so  !  Goethe  was  no  whin- 
ing poet.  He  knew  what  sorrow  was — knew  what 
dark  thoughts  assail  the  despairing  soul — but  he  was 
not  one  of  your  weak  set,  who  whine,  and  whine^  and 
despair,  and  die.  Goethe  wrote  '  Werther,'  but  he  did 
not  act  it!  He  struggled  with  his  grief — threw  it  off 
from  him — conquered  it — trampled  on  it  like  a  strong 
man.  No  thoughts  of  Waterloo  Bridge  could  gain 
mastery  over  him.     Bah  !  " 

This  was  galling  to  Ranthorpe;  and  was  dan- 
gerous policy  of  the  old  man's.  But  he  knew  that 
nothing  sudden  could  be  done,  and  determined  to  root 
out  the  idea  of  suicide. 

"  Goethe,  my  young  friend,  was  the  last  man  in  the 
world  to  deserve  the  epithet  cold.  What  makes  boobies 
call  him  so,  is  the  magnificent  supremacy  which  his 
reason  always  exercised  over  his  passions ;  because  he 
was  not  as  weak  as  the  weakest  of  poets  and  women 
would  have  wished  him  to  be,  he  is  said  to  have  been 
cold.  Bah!  He  was  a  loving  friend — a  generous 
enemy — an  inimitable  poet — only  not  a  Werther.  Take 
him  as  a  model ;  see  how  he  lived  and  worked.  From 
a  wild  youth  growing  into  a  great  man,  and  till  his 
eighty-third  year  preserving  an  unexampled  intellect 
amidst  almost  unexampled  activity.     That  is  the  man 


DESPAIR.  l6l 

you  authors  should  venerate  and  innitate!  He  under- 
stood the  divine  significance  of  man's  destiny — which  is 
work.  Man  the  worker  is  the  only  man  fit  to  live. 
Work  is  the  great  element  in  which  man  breathes  fi-eely, 
healthily.  Work  is  inestimable  defight — that  which  dis- 
tinguishes us  ft-om  the  brute  is  our  capacity  for  mental 
activity — and  in  this  activity  we  find  our  greatest  and 
purest  pleasures." 

This  was  striking  a  responsive  chord  in  the  poet's 
heart.  He  saw  the  effect,  and  followed  it  up.  Having 
gradually  excited  the  poet's  enthusiasm  to  the  requisite 
pitch,  he  then  abruptly  asked  him  : 

"  And  now  what  do  you  think  of  suicide  ?  " 

"  That  it  is  ignoble — contemptible!"  exclaimed  Ran- 
thorpe. 

The  little  old  man  jumped  up  from  his  seat,  hurled 
his  humble  scratch-wig  up  at  the  ceiling,  capered  about 
the  room  in  an  extraordinary  manner,  and  then  seizing 
Ranthorpe's  hand  in  both  his,  pressed  them  tenderly, 
and  said: 

"  Young  man,  young  man,  you  have  won  my  heart; 
you  have  done  a  good  action ;  you  have — " 

Here  he  was  obliged  to  cough  to  conceal  his  emo- 
tion, and  uttering  his  favorite  "  Bah !  "  picked  up  his 
wig,  and  reseated  himself. 

He  really  felt  that  Ranthorpe  had  conferred  an 
immense  favor  on  him  by  consenting  to  live.  If  this 
should  appear  strange  to  any  reader,  he  knows  little  of 
the  benevolent  heart.  Mr.  Thornton,  whose  fortune 
had  been  literally  given  away  in  cliarity,  was  too  great 
an  epicure  in  goodness  not  to  feel  keen  delight  in  having 
been  the  instrument  of  Ranthorpe's  preservation ;  and 
when  he  had  finally  succeeded,  he  felt  grateful  for  the 


l62  RANTHORPE. 

delight  received.  He  was,  indeed,  one  of  those  rare 
but  inestimable  specimens  of  humanity  who  seem  to 
have  taken  as  their  motto  the  lines  of  La  Mother 

"  Pour  nous,  sans  interet  obligeons  les  huraains  ; 
Que  I'honneur  de  servir  soit  le  prix  du  service ; 
La  vertu  sur  ce  point  fait  un  tourd'avarice 
Elle  se  paye  par  ses  mains." 

A  race  not  yet  extinct,  whatever  may  be  said  by  the 
commonplace  declaimers  respecting  the  egotism  of  our 
age  ;  a  race  which  may  boast  of  a  living  representative, 
in  the  wise,  the  happy,  the  benevolent  Dr.  Neil  Arnott. 


BOOK    IV. 

STRUGGLES    WITH    CIRCUMSTANCES. 

I  will  stand  no  more 

On  others'  legs,  nor  build  one  joy  without  me. 

If  ever  I  be  worth  a  house  again 

I'll  build  all  inward. 

G.  Chapman:  CcBsar and Pompey. 


CHAPTER    I. 

ISOLA    IN    HER    RETREAT. 

The  pleasure  that  is  in  sorrow  is  sweeter  than  the  pleasure  of 
pleasure  itself. 

Shelley. 

Sorrow,  they  say,  to  one  with  true  touch'd  ear, 
Is  but  the  discord  of  a  warbling  sphere, 
A  lurking  contrast,  which,  though  harsh  it  be. 
Distils  the  next  note  more  deliciously. 

Leigh  Hunt, 

But  all  this  time  I  have  been  neglecting  Isola;  not 
because  I  had  forgotten  her,  but  because  sometimes,  in 
the  confidence  of  love,  one  treats  fiiends  with  less  at- 
tention than  acquaintances ;  and  so  I  consented  to  keep 
my  heroine  in  the  background  till  I  could  have  a  clear 
space  for  her  to  fill.     This  now  is  found. 

Nightingale  Lane  used  to  be  one  of  the  prettiest 
lanes  about  Londoh.*  It  turned  from  the  Kensington 
high-road,  and  ran  up  to  Holland  House,  after  which  it 
branched  into  two  paths,  one  leading  to  the  Uxbridge 
Road,  the  other  leading  to  Camden  Hill.  In  this  sweet 
lane,  so  poetically  named  from  the  number  of  night- 
ingales, 

"  Singing  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease." 

the   delightful   spirit   might   really — to   use  the  popular 

*  Used  to  be,  but  is  so  no  longer.  It  has  recently  become  as  pro- 
saic a  lane  as  London's  environs  can  produce ;  at  least  until  it  reaches 
Holland  House. 


1 66  RANTHORPE. 

phrase — "  fancy  itself  miles  in  the  country;"  it  was,  in 
truth — 

"A  most  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless — " 

where  foliage  of  every  tint  and  shape,  through  which 
the  sun  streaked  splendor — where 

"  Verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways," 

enticed  the  sauntering  footsteps  to  those 

"  Murmurous  haunts  of  flies  on  summer's  eves. 

As  you  turned  up  from  the  noisy,  dusty  road,  into 
this  cool  and  leaf-strewed  path,  your  eyes  and  ears  were 
constantly  delighted;  you  caught  occasional  glimpses 
through  the  trees  of  Holland  House,  with  its  quaint 
architecture,  looking  a  living  record  of  the  past,  and 
strong  with  all  the  associations  of  a  line  of  wits ;  your 
eye  rested  upon  the  lawn  stretching  its  rich  verdure  be- 
fore the  house,  giving  pasture  to 

"A  few  cattle,  looking  up  aslant. 
With  sleepy  eyes  and  meek  mouths  ruminant." 

The  birds  were  in  the  trees,  making  them  "  tremble 
with  music,"  and  the  "  heavy-gaited  toad "  hopped 
across  the  path. 

I  know  not  why  it  is  that  lovely  scenes — or  even  a 
bit  of  sunshine  on  a  spot  of  green — or  the  gush  of  a 
rivulet  through  a  deserted  lane,  always  curiously  affect 
me.  These  things  "  overcome  me  like  a  summer  cloud  " 
— stirring  the  depths  of  my  soul ;  and  yet  so  vague  and 
shadowy  the  impressions,  that  they  seem  more  like  the 
broken  memories  of  many  dreams  uniting  into  one, 
than  any  distinct  reminiscence.  Are  others  so  affected  ? 
I   know  not.     To   me  it  seems  as  if  all  the  happiest, 


ISOLA    IN    HER    RETREAT.  167 

idlest  moments  of  my  boyhood  were  dimly  recalled ;  in- 
tense, although  too  dim  for  the  mind  to  give  them  form. 
The  murmuring  of  water  recalls  fragments  of  many 
scenes  where  that  murmur  had  before  been  heard;  re- 
calling, also,  all  the  youth  and  buoyancy,  the  unused 
sensibility,  the  trusting  affection  and  unfastidious  taste, 
ready  to  be  pleased,  and  pleased  with  all  it  saw ;  recall- 
ing the  delicious  loneliness  of  youth  when  solitude  was 
sought  to  people  it  with  forms  of  the  imagination — 
when  the  unspeakable  emotions  of  a  heart  too  full, 
could  only  be  relieved  by  solitary  brooding — when  the 
melancholy  of  a  mind,  without  a  purpose,  served  to 
identify  itself  with  the  on-goings  of  external  nature. 

These,  and  a  thousand  different  associations,  are  ever 
recalled  to  me  by  the  mere  aspect  of  external  beauty. 
On  those  occasions,  as  Wordsworth  sings  of  the  daisy : 

' '  Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease, 
I  sit  and  play  with  similes, 
Loose  types  of  things  through  all  degrees, 

Thoughts  of  thy  raising. 
And  many  a  fond  and  idle  name 
I  give  to  thee  for  praise  or  blame, 
As  is  the  humor  of  the  game, 

While  I  am  gazing." 

Some  such  process  of  association  was  going  on  in  the 
mind  of  Isola  Churchill,  as  she  slowly  sauntered  up 
Nightingale  Lane,  with  a  placid  smile  on  her  pale  and 
delicate  face,  weaving  "  fancies  rich  and  rare,"  or  watch- 
ing the  green  frog  springing  into  the  lush  weeds  that 
grew  on  the  hedge-side;  or  allowing  her  thoughts  to  lead 
her  to  the  happy  past. 

She  thought  of  her  childhood  and  her  early  love ; 
with  this  love  her  memory  wantoned,  and  would  not 
quit  its  sweet  famiHar  details;  till,  at  last,  her  thoughts 
were  irresistibly  driven  to  the  subject  of  her  first  and 


1 68  RANTHORPE. 

lasting  misery — her  outraged  affection.  Ah !  what  a 
change!  from  thoughts  of  bhss  suddenly  recalled  to  that 
state  Coleridge  so  finely  describes  as 

"  Grief  without  a  pang,  void,  dark,  and  drear, 
A  stifled,  drowsy,  unimpassion'd  grief, 
"Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief, 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear." 

This  sudden  recollection  of  a  constant  grief,  from 
whose  oppression  she  had  escaped  for  a  little  breathing 
time,  made  Isola  turn  into  her  house  with  a  shiver;  and 
without  taking  oft*  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  she  threw  her- 
self into  a  chair,  to  probe  the  depths  of  her  own  wretch- 
edness, and  thus  find  out  its  limits,  or  else  to  wring  a 
pleasure  fi-om  her  pain. 

The  "  luxur)^  of  grief"  is  a  curious  paradox ;  but  it  is 
an  incontestable  fact.  The  morbid  dwelling  on  some 
hateful  matter  is  a  diseased  delight ;  but  it  is  a  delight. 
In  certain  natures  the  craving  for  sensation  is  so  intense, 
that  if  pleasurable  sensations  are  unattainable,  painful 
ones  are  sought,  for  the  sake  of  the  sensation.  In 
moral  pain,  there  is  a  feeling  of  existence,  which,  on 
some  fi"ames,  acts  pleasurably.  This  is  a  fact,  explain 
it  as  we  may. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  sulky  people,  from  the  constant 
brooding  over  the  offence  they  sulk  at,  extract  a  real 
pleasure,  greater  than  any  reconciliation  could  afford. 
They  hug  themselves  in  their  martyrdom — they  make 
themselves  miserable,  and  delight  in  the  sensation. 
They  stimulate  their  minds  to  activity  by  the  constant 
pricking  of  a  sore  place. 

When  we  have  real  cause  for  grief,  we  are  too  apt  to 
accept  of  the  excuse  it  affords  for  the  indulgence  of  this 
morbid  feeling;  and  hence  the  profound  advice  of  Jean 


ISOLA    IN    HER    RETREAT.  1 69 

Paul,  that  the  first  thing  to  be  conquered  in  grief,  is  the 
pleasure  we  feel  in  bidulging  in  it. 

This  curious  fact  explains  how  many  people  of  ex- 
treme sensibility  have  been  thoroughly  heartless,  and 
how  it  is  very  easy  to  shed  floods  of  tears  over  the  loss, 
over  the  misfortune  of  another,  without  ever  having 
really  loved  the  person. 

The  tendency  to  dwell  on  grief  is  greater  in  women 
than  in  men :  firstly,  because  of  their  greater  sensibility ; 
and  secondly,  because  of  the  monotony  of  their  lives. 
In  the  hurry  of  business,  or  in  attention  to  study,  grief 
is  quickly  blunted  and  forgotten;  but,  in  the  monotony 
of  women's  lives,  the  indulgence  serves  to  fill  the  weary 
hours  with  a  vivid  sensation. 

Isola  had  this  malady  of  the  mind,  only  in  a  slight 
degree;  but  she  had  real  cause  for  grief,  and  her  solitude 
excused  it.  Forlorn  and  without  hope,  she  found  her- 
self wronged  and  deserted  by  him  on  whom  she  had 
bestowed  her  heart.  She  toiled  for  her  daily  bread; 
and  knew  not  why  she  toiled,  for  life  to  her  was 
cheerless. 

Yet,  no ;  not  cheerless !  She  said  so ;  but  it  was  not 
so.  She  had  still  her  quick-pulsing  youth  and  ardent 
faculties;  she  had  still  her  dreams  and  her  remem- 
brances; when  she  read  his  verses  her  heart  fluttered  as 
of  old — and  life  to  her  was  precious!  On  that  day 
which  I  selected  as  proper  for  her  reappearance  on  this 
scene,  and  while  probing  with  relentless  hand  the 
wounds  of  her  affections,  her  eye  mechanically  wandered 
round  the  room,  and  rested  on  the  various  water-color 
drawings  which  adorned  the  walls;  and  as  her  eye  thus 
rested  on  the  work  of  her  own  industry,  the  current  of 
her  thoughts  was  changed,  and  flowed  into  that  art  she 


lyo  RANTHORPE. 

loved  so  well,  and  to  which  she  owed  her  modest  sub- 
sistence. 

Art  is  a  perpetual  blessing — a  household  god  of 
peaceful,  holy  influence — chastening  the  worldly,  and 
exalting  the  aspiring;  as  Keats  sings: 

' '  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever, 
Its  loveliness  increaseth ;" 

and  with  its  increase  grows  its  divine  influence.  No  one 
accustomed  to  sit  surrounded  with  books  and  pictures 
can  have  failed  to  remark  the  influence  they  exercise 
upon  the  currents  of  thought ;  whichever  way  the  eye 
is  turned  those  objects  meet  it,  and  their  inexhaustible 
associations  fill  the  mind  with  beauty. 

Isola  felt  this  influence  as  she  gazed,  and  the  Ithu- 
riel  spear  of  beauty  healed  her  wound  at  a  touch.  In  a 
few  minutes,  her  heart  was  light,  her  mind  active,  and 
her  face  quiet  with  smiles. 

The  history  of  her  life,  from  that  fatal  day  when  she 
Overheard  Percy  declare  his  passion  to  Florence  Wil- 
mington to  the  period  at  which  we  again  meet  with  her, 
is  briefly  told. 

In  her  despair,  she  left  her  situation,  without  com- 
municating to  any  one  her  design  or  her  destination.  It 
pained  her  to  be  separated  from  Fanny ;  but  she  wished 
to  separate  herself  from  all  that  could  recall  her  passion, 
and  from  all  that  could  possibly  lead  to  the  discovery 
of  her  retreat.  She  took  an  humble  lodging  in  Nightin- 
gale Lane;  an>d,  when  the  first  torrent  of  her  grief  had 
passed,  debated  what  course  she  should  pursue.  An 
orphan,  she  had  no  one  to  guide  her,  no  one  to  protect 
her. 

After  a  little  while,  she  wrote  to  Fanny,  disclosing 
the  secret  of  her  sorrow  and  present  condition.     In  an 


THE    ARTIST.  Tj  1 

instant,  Fanny  was  by  her  side,  and  had  to  make  /ler 
confidence.  Strange  tricks  of  fate  that  had  made  these 
two  young  creatures  waste  their  hearts  upon  an  ingrate ! 
I  need  not  say  this  new  confidence  forged  another  Hnk 
of  sympathy  and  affection  between  them. 

Isola  had  determined  to  turn  her  wonderful  power  of 
drawing  to  account ;  and  Fanny  gladly  undertook  to  get 
these  drawings  sold,  and  sold  well,  amongst  her  con- 
nections. 

Thus  Isola  became  a  artist,  and  created  for  herself  a 
slender  but  sufficient  subsistence. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   ARTIST. 

Handelt  einer  mit  Honig,  er  leckt  zuweilen  die  Finger,       "     - 

Reinecke  Fuchs.    - 

My  Dionyza,  shall  we  rest  us  here, 
And  by  relating  tales  of  others'  griefs, 
See  if  'twill  teach  us  to  forget  our  own  ? 

Shakspeare  :  Pericles  of  Tyre. 

By  the  pencil  Isola  lived;  by  the  pencil  she  con- 
trived to  satsify  her  wants.  Small  indeed  must  those 
wants  have  been  to  be  suppHed  from  such  a  source;  but 
she  was  as  prudent  as  she  was  diligent,  and  seldom 
knew  the  sharp  pangs  of  hunger,  except  when  she  pur- 
chased them  by  a  weakness  for — art. 

She  was  a  true  artist,  however  humble  her  talent  of 
execution ;  she  had  the  genuine  feeling  and  o'ermaster- 
ing  enthusiasm  which  only  artists  know.  Whenever  she 
had  succeeded  in  executing  a  painting  of  more  than 
ordinary  beauty — whenever  she  had  thrown  more  of  her 


172 


RANTHORPE. 


own  feelings  than  usual,  into  any  work — she  could  not 
prevail  upon  herself  to  part  with  it ;  and  although  the 
need  for  the  money  she  might  receive  for  it,  was  often 
very  great,  yet  she  could  not  let  her  prudence  overcome 
her  enthusiasm,  she  could  not  consent  to  sell  her  poetry, 
to  part  with  her  creations  as  merchandise :  so  she  kept 
it,  and  lived  upon  a  crust  till  another  was  finished. 

Many  will  sneer  at  this  as  folly,  some  will  sympa- 
thize with  it  as  rarest  wisdom.  When  the  time  of  want 
had  passed  away,  the  *'  thing  of  beauty  "  remained  to 
her,  and  was  a  "joy  for  ever."  It  graced  her  walls,  and 
gladdened  her  thoughts.  There  are  thousands  who 
pinch  themselves  for  the  sake  of  a  little  extra  ostentation, 
and  may  not  one  poor  enthusiast  do  the  same  for 
beauty,  without  a  sneer  ? 

Think  of  this  lovely  creature,  with  no  companions 
but  her  books  and  pictures,  and  ask  yourself:  was  she 
not  wdse  thus  to  store  up  enjoyment  for  herself?  Think 
of  this  enthusiastic  girl  dwelling  for  hours  delighted  over 
her  own  creations — expressing  the  unspeakable  tender- 
ness of  her  soul  in  the  handling  of  a  flower,  or  in  the 
branches  of  a  tree  rustled  by  the  wind ;  think  of  her 
using  her  art,  not  for  the  poor  recompense  of  money,  or 
adulation,  but  as  the  process  whereby  she  s-ymbolized 
her  innermost  feeling — feelings  she  would  shrink  from 
expressing  otherwise — thoughts  which  she  dared  not 
utter,  but  which  in  the  unreserved  confidence  of  art  she 
could  form  into  symbols ;  think  of  her  fondly  watching 
this  creative  process  and  loving  her  realized  self:  and 
then  think  of  the  pangs  it  caused  her  to  part  with  these 
symbols  when  perfected;  never  to  see  them  more, 
knowing  that  they  were  to  go  before  eyes  that  could  not 
read  them,  minds  that  could  not  comprehend  them! 


THE    ARTIST.  1 73 

With  the  painter  it  is  otherwise  than  with  the  poet :  the 
latter  does  not  sell  away  his  work,  but  only  the  right  of 
printing  and  publishing  his  work;  he  has  it  always  with 
him;  the  painter  parts  forever  from  his  work.  To 
those  who  look  on  art  as  a  clever  manipulation — as 
alas !  too  many  are  inclined  to  look  on  it — this  conduct 
will  seem  ridiculous,  and  this  symbolizing  of  her  feelings 
a  mere  phantasy :  it  is  so  to  them.  Only  so  much  as 
the  mind  knows  can  the  eye  see ;  only  so  much  as  the 
mind  perceives  in  any  object,  can  it  attempt  to  repre- 
sent. Some  painters  talk  fatiguingly  of  the  "  imitation 
of  nature;"  whereas  art  is  not  a  daguerreotype,  but  the 
reproduction  of  what  the  mind  sees  in  nature.  It  is  in 
proportion  to  the  faculty  of  poetic  vision,  that  a  Claude 
transcends  a  mere  tableau  de  genre. '  As  an  imitation  of 
nature  in  the  literal  sense,  all  landscapes  are  bungles; 
in  the  poetical  sense,  there  is  no  question  about  imita- 
tion, but  about  reproduction.  I  once  saw  a  sketch  by 
Salvator  Rosa  of  a  mere  ravine,  Avith  one  stunted  tree 
bursting  from  a  mound,  and  twirling  its  branches  round 
a  piece  of  rock,  that  has  haunted  me  ever  since,  while 
of  five  thousand  so-called  "  landscapes  "  no  glir^mering 
remains. 

There  is  a  sentiment  in  every  picture,  however  rude, 
that  comes  from  the  hand  of  a  true  artist.  A  cottage, 
with  the  smoke  curling  from  its  small  chimney,  losing 
itself  in  a  clear  atmosphere,  may  be  either  very  poetical 
or  very  commonplace,  according  to  the  mind  of  the 
painter.  All  the  correctness  of  tone,  coloring,  and  per- 
spective in  the  world,  are  nothing,  unless  the  poet's 
rnagic  give  the  whole  that  grace,  impossible  to  be  de- 
fined, but  by  all  distinctly  felt.  The  difference  between 
an  imitation   of  nature,  and  an   artistic  conception  of 


174  RANTHORPE. 

nature,  may  be  stated  by  two  examples :  Denner  and 
Raphael.  Denner  copied  every  hair  and  freckle  ;  look- 
ing at  the  human  face  with  a  microscope,  he  anticipated 
the  effects  of  the  daguerreotype ;  his  works  are  glorious 
specimens  of  industry^  while  those  of  Raphael  are  the 
most  glorious  specimens  of  art^  and  are  truly  "joys  for 
ever." 

So  when  I  say  that  Isola  in  her  humble  way  created 
— that  she,  too,  was  a  poet — it  is  intelligible  how  she 
should  love  her  pictures  which  were  symbols  of  her  feel- 
ings.    Art  was  her  passion  :  it  was 

"  That  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery. 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  uninteUigible  world 
Is  enlightened." 

This  passion  served  at  least  to  soften  the  pangs  of 
wounded  affection  and  to  reconcile  her  to  life.  Time, 
the  consoler,  poured  his  balm  upon  her  wounds,  and 
she  became  at  last  almost  happy ;  only  recurring  with 
bitterness  to  the  past,  upon  peculiar  occasions,  when 
she  would  brood  over  her  sorrow,  till  called  insensibly 
away  again  by  her  pictures. 

She  had  renounced  the  world,  and  the  world's 
pleasures,  for  the  solitar)-,  happy,  active  life  of  an  artist. 
And  she  was  happy  with  her  books,  her  pictures,  and 
her  dog.  I  have  as  yet  had  no  time  to  say  a  word 
about  the  faithful  Leo,  a  superb  Newfoundland  dog, 
who  as  a  pup  had  followed  her  home  (she  had  not  the 
heart  to  prevent  him),  and  who  had  now  grown  into  a 
noble  companion  and  protector ;  but  though  I  have  till 
now  neglected  him,  he  occupied  too  large  a  place  in  her 
quiet  existence  for  me  to  pass  him  over  entirely.    There 


woman's  love.  175 

was  something  about  the  cahn  grandeur  and  candid 
lovingness  of  the  dog,  which  accorded  marvellously 
with  the  bearing  of  his  mistress;  and  as  she  stood  some- 
times with  her  hand  upon  his  upturned  head,  they 
formed  a  group  which  a  Phidias  might  have  envied. 
Leo  was  of  course  the  companion  of  her  walks ;  and 
while  she  read  or  painted  he  sat  at  her  feet,  watching 
her  with  calm  lovingness,  and  occasionally  thrusting  his 
head  into  her  hand  to  solicit  a  caress.  He  not  only 
alleviated  her  sense  of  loneliness,  but  often  prevented 
her  sitting  at  home  all  day,  instead  of  taking  invigorat- 
ing exercise,  for  she  oftener  went  out  on  his  account 
than  on  her  own. 


CHAPTER     III. 


WOMAN  S    LOVE. 

As  mine  own  shadow  was  this  child  to  me, 
A  second  self  far  dearer,  and  more  fair. 


This  playmate  sweet  was  made 

My  sole  associate,  and  his  wiUing  feet 

Wander'd  with  mine,  where  earth  and  ocean  meet. 


And  warm  and  light  I  felt  his  clasping  hand 
When  twined  in  mine.  We,  two,  were  ne'er 
Parted,  but  when  brief  sleep  divided  us. 

Shelley. 

But,  after  all,  the  artist  cannot  live  wholly  for  his 
art :  human  affections  and  human  infirmities  irresistibly 
chain  him  to  the  world  from  which  he  would  flee. 

So  Isola  could  not  live  without  aflections.  However 
the  peculiarity  of  her  position  might  induce  her  to  shun 


Ij6  RANTHORPE. 

communication  with  all  former  friends,  yet  the  very  sym- 
pathy and  sensibility  which  made  her  an  artist,  made 
her  pant  the  more  for  human  intercourse. 

The  heart  of  woman  is  a  fountain  of  everlasting  love; 
without  iove  it  dies,  with  love  alone  it  rests  contented. 
It  craves  some  object  on  which  to  pour  the  pent-up 
floods  of  its  affection.  The  object  may  be  fantastic,  the 
passion  may  be  curiously  distorted ;  but  the  craving 
must  be  satisfied  in  some  way.  Observe  how  in  old 
maids  this  distorted  affection,  cut  off  from  its  natural 
channel,  manifests  itself  in  the  extravagant  attachment 
to  some  cat  or  parrot :  this  has  it  ridiculous  side,  but  it 
has  also  a  poetical  one,  for  it  is  a  symbol  of  that  undy- 
ing love  women  were  created  to  perpetuate . 

Isola  loved  her  art,  but  she  panted  also  for  some- 
thing human ;  something  whose  wants  and  infirmities, 
appeahng  to  her  pity,  would  stir  the  sacred  waters  of. 
]ier  heart;  something  to  protect  with  lavish  love.  This 
she  found  in  a  neighbor's  child,  a  chubby  boy  of  five 
years  old,  with  sparkling  eyes,  dimpled  cheeks,  and 
ringing  laugh.  Women  are  by  nature  fond  of  all  chil- 
dren: and  when  these  youngsters  are  well-behaved  and 
pretty,  they  are  so  fascinating  that  one  may  really  be 
excused  any  extravagant  dotage. 

Who  can  refuse  the  petition  of  a  chubby  boy  ?  Who 
can  resist  the  stammering  request  ?  Who  can  be  angry 
at  a  spirited  petulance,  which,  though  loudly  qualified 
as  '^  very  naughty,"  is  secretly  admired  ?  Who  can  help 
being  moved  with  the  sharp  joyous  laugh,  the  inex- 
haustible faculty  of  amusement,  the  absorbing  curiosity 
and  astonishing  impudence  of  children  ?  It  is  impossi- 
ble ;  you  can  never  yourself  have  been  a  child  to  do  so ; 
or  else  you  have  been  crammed  with  hornbooks  and  in- 


WOMAN  S     LOVE.  1 77 

structive  dialogues  in  the  nursery,  till  you  became  dys- 
peptic and  premature. 

In  the  lane  where  Isola  lived,  she  had  often  met  with 
a  chubby,  rosy  boy,  of  five  years  old,  whose  beauty  and 
winning  ways  had  gradually  won  her  affections.  Meet- 
ing him  almost  daily,  she  began  to  look  upon  him  as  a 
younger  brother.  Having  nothing  else  to  love,  she 
soon  loved  him,  and  with  an  absorbing  affection.  He 
always  called  her  "  sister  Isola,"  was  always  the  first  to 
greet  her  when  she  came  out,  and  in  a  little  time  had 
established  himself  in  her  heart,  no  less  than  in  that  of 
Leo. 

Little  Walter  become  Isola's  joy  and  idol;  on  his 
education  and  amusement  she  expended  all  her  leisure 
hours;  and  the  little  fellow  touched,  as  are  all  noble 
boys,  by  kindness,  used  to  obey  her  to  the  letter.  She 
had  rarely  to  scold  him :  to  tell  him  he  had  done  wrong 
was  enough  to  send  tears  into  his  eyes ;  and  even  if  he 
repeated  the  offence — and  what  child  does  not  ?  he  was 
always  more  sorry  at  having  disobeyed  her,  than  at  the 
standing  in  the  corner  to  which  she  condemned  him. 

Touching  it  was  to  see  the  affection  of  these  two 
creatures  for  each  other — both  so  young  and  loving ; 
the  one  with  sunshine  always  in  his  face,  the  other  with 
a  cast  of  pensiveness,  which  gave 

"  Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace," 

to  her  sweet  countenance.  Hers  was  essentially  a 
motherly  heart.  Her  own  strong  nature  did  not  need 
that  protection  for  which  woman  mostly  looks  to  man; 
but  needed,  on  the  contrary,  something  feebler  to  cher- 
ish and  protect.  Her  love  for  Ranthorpe  had  always 
been  greatly  mingled  with  this   feeling;  she  had  early 


I  7^^  RANTHORPE. 

divined  his  weak,  wayward,  and  somewliat  womanly  na- 
ture, and  in  their  childhood  and  youth  had  been  an  elder 
sister  to  hini.  She  foresaw  dimly  that  he  would  need  lier 
support  in  his  battle  with  the  world;  and  with  all  her 
^-eneration  for  his  intellect,  she  felt  somewhat  towards 
him  as  a  mother  feels  for  an  idolized  child  of  genius. 
His  w^eakness  and  waywardness,  which  would  have 
shocked,  perhaps  disenchanted  another  woman,  only 
made  her  heart  yearn  more  towards  him. 

Conceive  then  the  delight  she  must  have  felt  in  little 
Walter.  She  was  now  no  longer  alone  in  the  w^orld;  and 
if,  as  they  wandered  through  the  lanes,  his  tiny  hand  in 
hers,  or  as  she  watched  him  romping  with  Leo,  she 
sometimes  sighed  to  think  she  had  not  for  him  a  mother's 
claims  as  she  had  a  mother's  tenderness;  still  the  con- 
stant delight  of  being  with  him,  thinking  of  him,  pur- 
chasing toys  for  him,  and  telling  him  stories,  kept  her 
feelings  in  such  active  play,  that  she  soon  recovered  her 
former  elasticity  of  spirits. 

Walter's  mother  was  in  narrow  circumstances,  and 
had  three  other  children,  and  she  was  very  sensible  of 
Isola's  kindness  to  her  boy — what  mother  is  not  so  ?  and 
was  always  pleased  that  he  should  be  with  her.  Isola 
taught  him  to  read.  Great  was  her  delight  at  his  pride 
when  he  jumped  about  or  strutted  with  importance 
"  worn  in  its  gloss,"  as  he  informed  everybody,  that  "he 
knew  another  line,  and  could  spell  it  all." 

With  Isola  he  rambled  through  the  lanes  and  fields, 
weaving  fantastic  garlands  of  wild  flowers,  or  showering 
them  upon  her  in  his  sport.  With  her  he  sat  while  she 
was  painting,  and  in  grave  silence  daubed  some  paper 
with  paint  brushes,  that  he  might  imitate  his  darling  sis- 
ter (as  he  called  her)  and  ''play  at   painting."     Often 


woman's  love.  179 

would  she  look  up  from  her  work,  and  catch  the  litde 
fellow  mocking  her  attitude  with  sly  gravity,  while 
laughter  peeped  from  under  his  eyelids;  and  then  she 
could  never  resist  pinching  his  chubby  cheeks,  and  throw 
aside  the  pencil  for  a  game  of  romps. 

Or  on  a  summer's  evening,  after  their  usual  stroll, — 
or  when  the  rain  kept  them  within  doors,  she  would 
amuse  him  with  those  stories  which  captivated  our  in- 
fancy, but  which  the  next  generation  stands  a  fair  chance 
of  not  hearing;  unless  a  stop  be  put  to  the  monstrous 
pedantic  absurdities  now  in  fashion  with  respect  to  edu- 
cation;* absurdities  promulgated  by  the  greatest  set  of 
dolts  that  ever  obtained  a  hearing;  which  hearing  they 
obtained  by  dint  of  a  rotten  sophism. 

It  is  not  enougli  that  " Goody  Two  Shoes,"  "Jack 
the  Giant  Killer,"  or  the  hero  of  the  "  Bean  Stalk,"  should 
ruthlessly  be  converted  into  moral  XAts — (as  if  children 
were  to  be  made  virtuous  by  maxims — and,  ye  gods! 
such  maxims!) — it  is  not  enough  that  men  should  so 
grossly  blunder  as  to  suppose  life  a  scheme  that  could 
be  taught,  instead  of  a  drama  that  must  be  acted; — it 
is  not  enough  that  the  affections,  sympathies,  and  im- 
agination are  considered  "  frivolous,"  and  reading  or 
hearing  stories  "sad  waste  of  time;" — these  are  trifles, 
"the  worst  is  yet  to  come."  Children  must  be  taught 
"  sciences  and  useful  knowledge;"  babies  of  three  or  four 
years  old  are  to  have  the  "steam-engine,  familiarly  ex- 
plained." Infants  are  to  be  called  in  from  trundling  the 
hoop,  to  con  over  the  mysteries  of  chemical  and  astro- 

*  Since  this  was  written  a  change  has  taken  place  and  in  the  right 
direction,  headed  by  the  active  and  tasteful  Felix  Summerly.  Thanks 
to  him,  and  to  Mr.  Cundall,  the  publisher  of  children's  books,  in  Bond 
Street,  we  have  now  the  best  old  stories  illustrated  by  artists  of  reputa- 
tion, and  excellent  new  stories  written  by  men  of  genius. 


I  So  KANTHOKPE. 

nomical  phenomena  "adai)ted  to  the  meanest  capacity." 
As  in  Hood's  exquisite  parody  of  George  Robins's  ad- 
vertisement, the  pump  is  enumerated  as  having  "  a  lian- 
dle,  with'ni  reach  of  the  smallest  ehild,''  so  do  our  ilhis- 
trious  educators  wish  to  phice  the  pump  of  knowledge 
within  reach  of  the  meanest  capacity,  that  infants  may 
forego  the  mother's  milk  to  drink  of  its  Pierian  spring. 

Is  this  credible?  In  a  sane  country  is  it  credible  that 
chemistry,  geology,  astronomy,  and  theology  should  be 
"adapted  to  the  infant  mind,"  and  the  inflint  mind  em- 
bedded in  this  mass  of  indigested  nonsense  ? 

Most  Avise  doctors  !  Most  credulous  parents  !  ^lost 
unhappy  children !  To  you  all,  a  blessed  millennium  of 
science  is  coming,  wherein  imagination  and  emotion 
will  no  more  vitiate  the  mind ;  wherein  "  prejudices " 
will  be  matters  of  research,  and  the  differential  calculus 
be  expounded  to  the  infant  in  the  cradle  ! — A  time  when 
''gentle  maidens  reading  through  their  tears"  will  feel 
their  hearts  tremble  over — conic  sections;  romantic 
youths  will  feel  their  breasts  inflated  with  the  mystery 
and  magic  of — the  composition  of  forces ;  and  happy 
men  have  all  their  sympathies  enlarged  by  eccentric 
orbits !  Then  will  the  air  be  filled  with  sighs  of  "  defi- 
nite proportions;"  and  the  dance,  theatre,  and  picnic 
give  place  to  scientific  meetings.  Then  will  the  budding 
rose  of  womanhood  meet  her  chosen  one,  beneath  the 
mystic  moon,  and  pour  forth  her  feelings  on  the  atomic 
theory  :  her  lover  answering  in  impassioned  descriptions 
of  stalactite  and  strata! 

This  millennium  is  still,  however,  distant:  as  we 
thankfully  acknowledge.  Isola  had  no  sort  of  sympathy 
with  it.  Her  instinct,  rather  than  her  reason,  told  her 
that  the  child  must  feel  before  it  can  know  ;  and  that 


WOxMAN'S    l.OVK.  .181 

knowledge,  great  and  glorious  as  it  is,  can  never  be  tlie 
end  of  life  :  it  is  but  one  of  the  many  means. 

She,  therefore,  fed  his  insatiate  appetite  with  stories 
of  human  sympathies,  sufferings,  virtues,  and  prowess — 
lairy  tales,  and  legends  gay  and  sad.  He  listened  with 
open  mouth  and  staring  eyes,  occasionally  filled  with 
tears  :  precious  drops  !  so  necessary  to  encourage  in  the 
egotistical  period  of  infancy ;  which  is  egotistical  be- 
cause it  knows  no  other  joys  and  pains  than  those  it 
suffers;  and  when  she  ended  he  would  exclaim, '' Tell 
it  again !  "  tell  it  again  !  " 

Tell  it  again! — what  a  contrast  witli  the  listless,  rest- 
less mind  which  a  few  years  afterwards  cannot  read  a 
book  nor  hear  a  story  told  a  second  time; — which 
craves  for  something  '•  new,"  though  the  only  novelty 
be  in  the  title ! 

Tell  it  again! — In  those  words  the  riches  of  child- 
hood are  revealed ;  it  is  in  childhood  only  that  we  do 
not  weary  of  the  twice-told  tale  or  the  twice-felt  emotion. 

"  Let  us  go  and  kill  giants,"  he  would  say,  after  lis- 
tening to  the  exploits  of  that  Achilles  of  private  life, 
*' Jack  the  Giant  Killer."  '■'■  Buy  me  a  fairy,  sister  Isola, 
will  you  ?"  he  often  entreated.     "  I'll  be  very  good." 

And  thus  they  lived  and  loved.  They  were  the 
world  to  each  other,  and  beyond  that  world  they  did 
not  care  to  move.  There  was  in  her  love  an  intensity — 
an  anxiety  which  differed,  in  its  unhealthiness,  from  a 
mothers  love.  Isola  loved  a  child  that  was  not  her 
own,  and  that  might  at  any  time  be  separated  from  her; 
no  Vvonder,  then,  that  she  was  fretful  and  anxious. 


1 82  RANTHORI-E. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    WOOF    IS    WEAVING. 

Miserable  creature, 
If  thou  persist  in  this  'tis  damnable. 
Dost  thou  imagine  thou  can'st  slide  on  blood 
And  not  be  tainted  with  a  shameful  fall  ? 
Or,  like  the  black  and  melancholic  yew-tree, 
Dost  think  to  root  thyself  in  dead  men's  graves 
And  yet  to  prosper  ? 

Webster:   The  White  Dei'U. 

When  Ranthorpe  awoke,  the  morning  after  the 
night  of  his  failure,  he  felt  almost  angry  with  Mr.  Thorn- 
ton for  his  benevolent  interference.  He  awoke  to  find 
himself  once  more  robbed  of  his  illusions.  He  had 
again  failed:  his  greatest  effort  to  win  a  name  had 
been  received  with  derision.  Would  it  ever  be  other- 
wise? Had  he  sufficient  courage  to  act  upon  Mr. 
Thornton's  advice  ? 

He  doubted  his  own  energy.  The  intense  excite- 
ment of  the  preceding  night  had  now,  in  its  reaction, 
unnerved  him.  He  felt  Hstless,  hopeless,  lifeless.  Mr. 
Thornton  called  early.  His  conversation  for  a  while 
revived  the  drooping  spirits  of  his  young  friend ;  but  on 
his  taking  leave,  they  sank  again.  Harry  had  made 
one  or  two  efforts  at  consolation ;  but  soon  gave  up  the 
attempt  as  fruitless.  He  was,  in  truth,  himself  too  much 
distressed  at  his  friend's  failure,  to  be  an  effectual  con- 
soler. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  a  letter  was  put  into 
Ranthoqje's  hands :  a  mere  glance  at  the  superscription 
made  his  heart  and  temples  throb  violently,  and  he  held 


THE    WOOF    IS    WEAVING.  1 83 

it  some  minutes  before  him,  imal)le  to  open  it.     It  was 
from  Isola,  and  ran  thus: 

"My  ever  beloved  Percy. — T  was  at  the  theatre 
last  night!  That  will  tell  you  how  much  1  suffered  and 
still  suffer.  The  manner  in  which  your  play  was  acted, 
would  have  ruined  the  finest  work;  and  I  perfectly 
hated  the  actors !  Every  applause  made  my  heart  beat ; 
every  hiss  made  it  sick;  and  when  I  left  the  house — 
but  I  cannot  write  of  it ! 

"Now,  Percy,  now  do  you  most  need  all  your 
strength — now  must  you  wrap  yourself  up  in  the  proud 
consciousness  of  your  genius,  and  the  assurance  of  its 
ultimate  recognition,  and  not  suffer  failure  to  daunt  your 
aspiring  soul.  Despise  the  injustice  of  the  world;  do 
not  let  it  make  you  swerve  one  inch  out  of  your  path. 
Last  night  I  felt  despondent — unutterably  despondent. 
To-day  I  feel  that  despondency  is  weakness,  even  in 
me;  and  that  you  will  not,  cannot,  let  it  prey  long  upon 
you.  Think  of  how  often  the  greatest  men  have  been 
misjudged,  but  how  surely  has  the  world  revoked  its 
hasty  verdict.  Think  of  your  own  works,  and  compare 
them  with  works  which  have  succeeded,  and  then  see 
how  little  the  accident  of  one  failure  can  affect  your  hopes. 

"Above  all  things  resist  despondency.  Wring  \\hat 
lesson  you  will  out  of  this  unhappy  night,  but  only  be- 
ware of  attributing  too  much  importance  to  it.  Rise  uj) 
against  it;  look  it  courageously  in  the  face,  and  say:  1 
have  failed,  but  I  will  succeed. 

**  Will  to  do  it,  and  it  is  done.  That  you  have 
genius  you  cannot  doubt;  but  genius  itself  is  powerless, 
unless  accompanied  by  strength  of  will.  Fortitude  of 
mind  is  perhaps  the  greatest  characteristic  of  every  great 


184  RANTHORPE. 

man;  and  that  you  will  be  great  I  feel  deeply  convinced, 
if  you  can  but  summon  sufficient  courage  to  trust  wholly 
to  yourself. 

"This  was  all  I  intended  to  say;  but  it  is  in  vain  I 
strive  to  master  my  feelings.  While  pointing  to  the 
future,  I  cannot  help  recurring  to  the  painful  past.  Be- 
sides, it  would  look  unkind.  If  I  made  no  allusion  to 
the  past,  you  might  fancy  it  was  from  coldness,  or  pride, 
or  anger.  I  feel  nothing  of  the  kind;  and  be  assured 
that  whatever  it  may  have  cost  me  to  own  myself  no 
longer  your  affianced  bride,  I  have  now  learned  to  en- 
dure my  lot  with  patient  calmness.  I  forgive  you, 
Percy;  I  have  long  forgiven  you.  It  was  no  fault  of 
yours  that  I  was  less  lovable  than  another. 

"Be  great,  be  happy!  that  is  the  constant  wish  of 
your  devoted  sister,  I  sola, 

"P.S. — You  will  understand  my  motives  in  keeping 
my  present  address  a  secret.  Do  not  endeavor  to  detect 
it.  I  could  /lot  SQQ  you;  I  have  not  sufficient  strength. 
When  you  are  mamed — then  perhaps;  but  7iow  I  feel 
that  I  must  avoid  your  presence.     God  bless  you !" 

This  letter,  meant  to  be  so  calm,  was  scarcely  legible 
from  the  tears  she  had  let  fall  upon  it ;  and  Percy  felt  as 
he  read  it  a  mixed  sensation  of  pain  and  rapture;  of 
pain,  because  he  felt  how  much  she  suffered ;  of  rapture, 
because  he  felt  she  loved  him  still. 

It  awoke  him  from  his  lethargy;  it  gave  life  a  value, 
and  a  purpose.  He  would  not  rest  until  he  had  dis- 
covered her,  and  not  only  obtained  her  pardon,  but  her 
hand.  He,  who  a  few  minutes  ago  was  despairing  of 
ever  gaining  a  livelihood  by  his  pen,  was  now  all  eager- 
ness to  gain  a  wife. 


THE    WOOF    IS    WEAVING.  1 85 

The  post-mark  was  Camberwell.  He  instantly  set 
off  for  Camberwell,  and  went  to  the  various  post-offices 
there,  certain  to  learn  from  the  letter-carriers  Miss 
Churchill's  address.  After  many  disappointments,  he 
at  last  was  told  where  a  Miss  Churchill  lived.  He 
went  there,  and  found  an  old  maid,  who  received  him 
with  some  embarrassment,  but  whose  embarrassment 
was  ease  itself  compared  with  his,  when  he  discovered 
the  mistake,  stammered  an  apology,  and  rushed  out  of 
the  house. 

His  search  was  fruitless.  He  became  at  length  con- 
vinced that  Camberwell  had  been  chosen  as  the  place 
for  posting  the  letter,  simply  to  mislead  him  as  to  Isola's 
real  abode.     How  was  he  to  discover  it  ? 

Every  day  of  the  ensuing  fortnight,  at  the  top  of  the 
first  page  of  the  "Times,"  api)eared  this  advertisement : 

"  IsoLA  is  solcmtily  implored  to  communicate  with 
P.  R." 

But  Isola  never  saw  the  "  Times ;"  never  saw  any 
newspaper.  Had  she  seen  this  advertisement,  she  would 
assuredly  have  written  again ;  but  Percy,  exasperated 
by  her  silence,  which  he  could  not  understand — never 
suspecting  that  she  had  not  seen  his  advertisement — re- 
signed himself  to  his  fate. 

Her  letter  had,  however,  produced  the  desired  effect. 
It  had  drawn  him  from  brooding  despondency — it  had 
restored  him  his  former  energy  and  ambition.  Mr. 
Thornton  had,  in  his  benevolent  desire  to  secure  the 
safety  of  his  new  protege,  offered  him  the  situation  of 
private  secretary  at  a  salary  of  one -hundred -and -fifty 
pounds  a-year.  Mr.  Thornton  dabbled  in  literature, 
and  had  made  collections  for  a  ''  History  of  the  Drama," 
which  he  proposed  that  Percy  should  assist  him  in  ar- 


1 86  RANTHORPE. 

ranging  in  due  order,  and  seeing  through  the  press. 
The  proposal  was  accepted  with  thankfulness;  and  leav- 
ing his  old  lodgings,  he  was  quickly  installed  in  Mr. 
lliornton's  house. 

He  was  as  comfortable  in  his  new  situation  as  it  was 
possible,  considering  his  uncertainty  about  Isola,  After 
a  little  while,  he  followed  Mr.  Thornton's  advice,  and 
accepted  Rixelton's  offer  to  write  again  the  theatrical 
critiques  in  his  paper.  Ranthorpe  wished  to  study  the 
art  of  the  stage,  and  this  office  of  critic,  would,  he 
thought,  be  beneficial  to  him  in  that  respect.  How 
much  he  really  learned  in  this  way  it  is  impossible  to 
guess ;  but  he  was  very  assiduous  in  his  attendance, 
and  very  careful  in  his  criticisms. 

Let  us  leave  him  at  his  new  avocation  to  return  to  a 
personage  introduced  early  in  this  liistory,  but  of  whom 
we  have  hitherto  had  no  interest  in  following  through 
the  downward  stages  of  dissipation  and  blackguardism. 
OHver  Thornton  —  the  medical  student,  whom  Ran- 
thorpe saw  in  company  with  Harry  Cavendish,  in  our 
first  chapter — was  the  nephew  of  old  Mr.  Thornton. 
He  now  reappears  upon  the  stage  as  a  confirmed 
specimen  of  the  genus  blackguard. 

When  first  we  saw  him,  he  was  to  all  appearance  no 
worse  than  his  fellow-student  Harry.  Both  were  "  fast 
fellows."  Both  spent  more  time  in  saloons  and  cider- 
cellars  than  in  the  lecture-room  or  hospital.  But  now, 
while  Harry  had  gradually  been  emerging  from  the 
slang  and  coarseness  of  the  medical  student,  and,  grow- 
ing older,  had  grown  more  like  the  gentleman  nature 
intended  him  to  be,  though  still  with  too  much  of  the 
old  leaven  in  him ;  Oliver  had  been  as  gradually  sink- 
ing deeper  and  deeper  into  the  mire,  till  his  only  fitting 


THE    WOOF    IS    WEAVING.  187 

atmosphere  seemed  to  be  that  of  night-houses  aiid  gam- 
ing tables.  In  that  foul  marsh,  where  Harry,  like  so 
many  of  his  comrades,  had,  in  the  exuberance  of  youth, 
'*  sown  his  wild  oats,"  Oliver  had  rooted  his  whole  ex- 
istence. 

Mr.  Thornton  was  one  evening  sitting  alone  (Ran- 
thori^e  was  at  the  theatre),  discussing  a  tumbler  of  hi;, 
famous  punch,  when  Oliver,  who  had  not  been  near  him 
for  some  months,  walked  into  the  room.  He  was  not 
very  well  pleased  to  see  his  nephew ;  he  never  was. 
But  a  well-directed  compliment  respecting  the  savor  of 
the  punch,  caused  him  to  ring  the  bell,  order  another 
tumbler,  and  prepare  to  be  as  amiable  as  his  kn'bwl- 
edge  of  the  character  of  his  nephew  would  permit. 

"  Pray,  when  do  you  intend  to  pass  the  college  ?" 
asked  the  uncle,  after  a  while. 

"  Oh  !  very  shortly.     I  shall  '  grind r  " 

"  Grind  ?" 

"  Yes ;  go  to  Steggall — he  grinds  chaps  for  the  col- 
lege in  no  time.  Never  fear!  I  shall  work  like  a  beg- 
gar." 

"  Had  you  not  better  work  like  a  surgeon?" 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  I  suppose  you  intend  to 
stand  the  needful,  uncle?" 

"  Not  I.  Your  ways  of  life  have  displeased  me. — 
Bah  !" 

"  What  ways  of  life  ?" 

'•  K?//rways;  debauchery,  idleness,  dishonor.  You 
stare ; — you  try  to  look  like  indignant  virtue.  It  won't 
do.     I  have  heard  all  about  you." 

"  What  have  you  heard  ?" 

*'  Why,  one  thing  as  a  sample,  you  seduced  a  ser- 
vant girl.     Don't  deny  it !     It  is  not  that   I  blame  so 


1 88  RANTHORPK.  I 

much.  I  have  been  young  myself,  and  servants  are  no{ 
Lucretias." 

OHver's  face  brightened.  It  lowered  again  as  his 
uncle  proceeded — "  But  if  an  excuse  can  be  found  for 
that,  none  can  be  found  for  your  subsequent  treatment. 
She  had  a  child ;  that  child  you  disowned  ;  you  refused 
to  give  a  farthing  towards  its  support ;  and  that,  too,  at 
a  time  when  you  were  constantly  wheedling  me  out  of 
money  to  feed  your  extravagance.  Bah !  pitiable ! — 
contemptible !  You  see  I  know  all.  Don't  wonder 
then,  if,  from  this  moment,  my  purse  is  shut  against  you 
as  my  heart  is.  Extravagance — folly — debauchery,  1 
could  forgive,  as  the  wild  errors  of  youth.  But  unkind- 
ness — dishonorable  conduct — and  to  a  poor,  wretched 
victim  whom  you  had  ruined — that,  sir,  neither  belongs 
to  the  errors  of  youth,  nor  to  the  organization  of  a  gen- 
tleman— Bah !" 

The  old  gentleman  had  warmed  himself  into  a  pas- 
sion at  the  mere  contemplation  of  his  nephew's  conduct. 
Oliver  was  silent,  uneasy. 

"You  have  lost  all  claim  upon  me,  sir;  except  that 
of  being  my  brother's  son.  What  little  I  can  leave  you 
when  I  die,  may  be  yours,  if  you  reform  ;  but  if  I  find 
you  pursuing  your  present  career,  be  assured  that  I  shall 
leave  that  little  to  a  more  worthy  man." 

"  To  your  secretary,  perhaps,"  suggested  Oliver, 
with  a  sneer. 

"Yes:  in  all  probability.  1  have  a  real  regard  for 
him;  for  you  I  have  none." 

"  Thank  'ye,"  said  Oliver,  rising,  and  taking  his  hat. 
"  Then  I  suppose  I  may  look  upon  the  succession  as 
booked?  Your  brother's  son,  of  course,  can't  pretend 
to  so  much  regard  as  a  stranger  ?" 


THE    WOOF    IS    WEAVING.  189 

"  Oliver,  I  do  not  forget  you  are  my  brother's  son  ; 
do  not  you  forget  it.  Let  his  name  be  preserved  from 
disgrace.  I  repeat  it;  if  you  reform,  you  shall  not 
want.  What  I  can  leave  shall  be  yours.  I  do  this  for 
your  father's  sake — not  yours.  But  continue  to  lead 
your  present  life,  and  I  disown  and  disinherit  you. 
Bah !" 

Oliver  felt  a  strong  temptation  to  commit  some 
violence ;  but  restraining  himself,  as  he  saw  the  imj^os- 
sibility  of  escaping  detection,  he  held  out  his  hand, 
promised  reformation,  and  quitted  the  house  in  a  fit  of 
sullen  rage. 

"  D — n  him !  "  he  muttered,  "  I  shall  be  done,  if  he 
doesn't  shortly  /lop  the  twigy 

And  he  continued  his  walk,  grimly  speculating  on 
his  uncle's  death. 

"  He  knows  too  mucli  " — thought  Oliver — "  a  great 
deal  too  much.  If  he  should  find  out  that  affair  at  Ep- 
som "  (he  alluded  to  a  disgraceful  case  of  swindling  in 
which  he  had  been  implicated),  "  it  is  all  up  with  me — 
no  legacy.  D — n  him !  What  an  old  frump  he  is ! 
And  to  think  lliat  I  am  his  heir.  If  he  7cw//^/ only  break 
his  neck !  " 

He  continued  his  walk  homewards,  occupied  with 
these  dark  thoughts ;  speculating  on  the  advantages  he 
should  derive  from  his  uncle's  death ;  and  on  the  danger 
he  incurred  of  being  disinherited,  if  his  uncle  did  not 
shordy  die.  On  awaking  the  next  morning,  the  same 
thoughts  presented  themselves  to  him.  They  pursued 
him  through  the  day.  That  night  he  dreamt  that  his 
uncle  had  been  murdered.  He  awoke  gready  disap- 
pointed. 

All   that  day,  and  all  the  next,  this   one  current  of 


190  .  RANTHORPE. 

thought  was  scarcely  interrupted.  His  uncle's  death 
soon  became  a  fixed  idea  with  him.  It  fascinated  him — 
haunted  him.  Vague  thoughts  of  murder  had  tempted 
his  soul,  but  were  shudderingly  evaded.  They  returned, 
again  and  again,  and  at  length  were  evaded  without 
horror.  They  became  familiar :  from  that  moment  they 
became  dangerous ! 

The  idea  of  murder,  which  had  become  familiar  to 
Ills  mind,  was  soon  to  be  converted  into  a  resolution. 
He  tampered  with  his  conscience  and  his  fears;  he 
fought  against  the  growing  resolution,  feeling  that  it 
would  be  fatal  to  him;  he  endeavored,  in  new  orgies, 
to  drown  the  desperate  thoughts  which  haunted  him. 
But  it  was  too  late.  The  idea  had  become  a  fixed  idea. 
He  must  either  become  a  murderer  or  a  monomaniac ! 

The  tyrannous  influence  of  fixed  ideas — of  thoughts 
u'hich  haunt  the  soul,  and  goad  the  unhappy  wretch  to 
'lis  perdition — is  capable,  I  think,  of  a  physiological  no 
less  than  of  a  psychological  explanation. 

Some  fearful  thought  presents  itself,  and  makes,  as 
}>eople  figuratively  say,  a  deep  impression.  By  a  law 
of  our  nature,  it  is  the  tendency,  almost  invincible,  of  all 
thoughts  connected  with  that  fearful  one — either  acci- 
dentally or  inherently  connected  with  it — to  recall  it 
whenever  they  arise.  This  association  of  ideas  there- 
fore prevents  the  thought  from  evanescing.  In  propor- 
tion to  the  horror  or  interest  inspired  by  that  thought, 
will  be  the  strength  of  the  tendency  to  recurrence.  The 
brain  may  be  then  said  to  be  in  a  state  of  partial  inflam- 
mation, owing  to  the  great  aflluence  of  blood  in  one 
direction.  And  precisely  as  the  abnormal  affluence  of 
blood  towards  any  part  of  the  body  will  produce  chronic 
inflammation,  if  it  be  not  diverted,  so  will  the  current  of 


THE    WOOF    rS    WEAVING.  I91 

thought' in  excess  in  any  one  direction  produce  n:\ono- 
mania.  Fixed  ideas  may  thus  be  physiologically  re- 
garded as  chronic  inflammations  of  the  brain. 

Reader!  this  digression  is  nqt  idle.  If  you  find 
yourself  haunted  by  any  ideas  which  you  would  fain 
shake  off,  remember  that  the  only  effectual  way  to  rid 
yourself  of  them  is  one  somewhat  analogous  to  that 
practised  for  inflammation  of  the  body.  You  must  draw 
tlie  current  of  your  thoughts  elsewhere.  You  must  ac- 
tively, healthily,  employ  your  mind  and  your  affections. 
You  must  create  fresh  associations  with  such  things  as 
liave  a  tendency  to  recall  the  thoughts  you  would  evade. 
Let  the  mind  recover  its  elasticity  by  various  activity^ 
and  you  are  safe. 

Had  Ohver  plunged  into  fresh  dissipations  before 
the  idea  of  murder  had  become  a  fixed  one — before  the 
inflammation  had  become  chronic — then  he  might  have 
been  saved.  But  he  tried  it  too  late.  The  dull  morn- 
ings following  debauchery  only  left  him  an  easier  prey 
to  his  fierce  thoughts;  while  the  extravagances  which 
made  money  more  and  more  necessary,  served  to  place 
his  uncle's  death  in  more  advantageous  colors  to  him. 

I  cannot  follow  him  through  all  the  struggles  his 
fears  and  conscience  held  with  this  fascinating  idea  of 
murder.  Enough  if  I  state  that  it  at  length  subdued 
him.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  there  were  no  alternative 
between  his  going  to  the  dogs  and  murdering  his  uncle. 
But  of  course  his  uncle's  death  was  a  means,  not  an 
end.  He  had  no  vengeance  to  satisfy  ;  he  had  no  par- 
ticular hatred  towards  his  uncle;  he  only  wanted  his 
money.  His  object  therefore  was  to  remove  an  ob- 
stacle, without  drawing  any  suspicion  upon  himself. 

Oliver  was  extremely  cunning,  and  as  unprincipled. 


192  RANTHORPF. 

His  whole  thoughts  were  now  directed  towards  forming 
some  plan  whereby  he  might  escape  suspicion.  Poison 
in  any  shape  would  not  prevent  suspicion,  because  he 
would  not  be  able  to  prove  his  absence  from  the  scene. 
To  hit  upon  some  plan  which  should  absolve  him  from 
all  danger,  and,  the  more  effectually  to  do  so,  to  throw 
the  suspicion  upon  another,  was  the  problem  to  be 
solved.  Many  plans  were  thought  of;  but  none  were 
free  from  danger.  "  Murder  will  out,"  and  in  so  many 
ways,  that  the  most  ingenious  cannot  foresee  all  the 
trivial  circumstances  which  give  the  clue. 
At  length  his  plan  was  perfected. 


CHAPTER  V. 

NIGHT    OF    THE    MURDER. 

Threescore  and  ten  I  can  remember  well ; 

Within  the  volume  of  which  time  I've  seen 

Hours  dreadful  and  things  strange;  but  this  sore  night 

Hath  trifled  former  knowings. 

Shakspeare. 

"  Sad  piece  of  extravagance,  that  of  wearing  pumps 
in  the  day-time,"  said  Mr.  Thornton  to  his  nephew,  as 
they  were  sitting  together  awaiting  tea,  on  that  evening 
chosen  by  Oliver  for  his  desperate  act. 

Oliver  smiled  as  he  answered :  ''  Oh,  tliey're  an  old 
pair,  quite  unfit  for  parties,  and  the  weather  is  so  warm." 

"  Well,  well,  it's  no  business  of  mine,  to  be  sure ; 
only  as  you  have  determined  on  a  thorough  reformation 
(excellent  determination,  too,  and  will  gain  your  uncle's 
heart),  it  seems  to  me  that  extravagance  in  dress — " 


NIGHT    OF    THE    MURDER.  1 93 

"  But,  my  dear  uncle,  it's  economy.  You  would 
not  have  me  throw  them  away  because  they're  too 
shabby  for  dinner-parties  and  '  hops,'  would  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Griffith,  the  housekeeper,  entered  at  that 
moment,  to  say  something  to  Mr.  Thornton. 

"  Good  day,  Mrs.  Griffith,"  said  Oliver,  glad  of  this 
opportunity  of  procuring  a  witness  of  his  amity  with  his 
uncle.  "  Come,  look  approvingly,  Mrs.  Griffith — en- 
courage me  in  virtue.  See  how  good  uncle  is !  I  have 
commenced  my  reform — am  going  to  become  a  respect- 
able member  of  society — and  uncle's  going  to  celebrate 
the  prodigal  nephew's  return  with  a  bowl  of  his  inim- 
itable punch  !" 

Mrs.  Griffith  was  all  smiles.  She  ahvays  knew  Mr. 
Oliver  was  a  good  young  gentleman,  and  told  Mr. 
Thornton  so.  She  thought  that  young  men  would  be 
young  men  ;  but  that  Mr.  Oliver  would  be  sure  to  be 
steady,  after  a  while. 

"  Thank  'ye,  Mrs.  Griffith,"  replied  Oliver,  highly 
pleased  with  his  success ;  "  but  now  I  must  give  you  a 
little  trouble — and  that  is,  to  find  my  '  Astley  Cooper's 
Lectures,'  which  1  left  here  some  months  ago,  and  you 
said  you  had  put  away  for  me." 

"  That's  true,  Mr.  Oliver;   I'll  get   it  immediately." 

Mrs.  Griffith  returned  empty-handed,  declaring  that 
the  book  was  not  where  she  fancied  she  had  placed  it, 
and  that  it  must  have  been  put   away  somewhere   else. 

A  strange  look  of  triumph  might  have  been  observed 
in  Oliver's  eyes  at  this  point.  He  wanted  to  search  th^ 
house,  in  company  with  one  of  the  servants,  as  a  proof 
that  no  one  could  have  been  concealed  there. 

"  Well,  before  I  go  I  will  have  a  rummage  with 
you,   Mrs.   Griffith,"  he    said;  ''don't   trouble   yourself 

13 


194  RANTHORPE. 

now.  I  shall  know  the  book  among  a  thousand — a 
mere  gHmpse  is  enough  for  me." 

A  merry  evening  was  spent  over  the  punch.  OUver 
t/as  all  amiability,  and  contrived  to  draw  his  uncle  into 
telling  many  of  his  famous  stories,  at  which  both 
laughed  heartily.  Oliver  was  determined  the  servants 
should  hear  the  laughter,  so  kept  the  door  open  on 
pretext  of  the  heat.  He  succeeded;  for  when  Mrs. 
Griffith  came  up  again,  she  remarked  upon  their  merri- 
ment. 

"  By  the  bye,  now,  Mrs.  Griffith,  if  you  are  at  your 
leisure  we  will  have  our  rummage." 

The  proposal  was  accepted  ;  the  house  was  searched; 
every  cupboard  was  opened,  they  looked  under  every 
sofa,  and  into  every  hole  and  corner.  The  book  was 
not  found,  simply  because  Oliver  had  already  abstracted 
it. 

But  something  else  was  found — at  least  by  him.  As 
Mrs.  Griffith  went  up  to  look  in  one  of  the  attics,  Oliver 
darted  into  Ranthorpe's  room.  He  opened  the  drawer 
of  the  looking-glass,  and  took  a  razor  out  of  its  case. 
He  til  en  carefully  shut  the  drawer,  concealed  the  razor 
in  his  pocket,  and  hastily  followed  Mrs.  Griffith. 

Giving  up  the  search  as  fruitless,  they  returned  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  Oliver  said  he  would  take  one 
more  glass  of  punch  with  his  uncle,  and  then  go  home, 
as  it  was  getting  late. 

The  punch  was  drunk ;  Oliver  rose  to  depart,  shook 
his  uncle's  hand  warmly,  and  ran  rapidly  down  stairs, 
opened  the  door,  and  slammed  it  with  some  violence. 
But  he  had  shut  himself  in  !  The  servants  would  all 
swear  they  heard  him  go — heard  him  "  shut  the  door  after 
him."     Yet  he  had  simply  shut  the  door   before   him. 


NIGHT    OF    THE    MURDER.  1 95 

Creeping  Stealthily  into  the  back  parlor  (the  use  of  his  thin 
pumps  is  now  betrayed!)  he  noiselessly  concealed  himself 
under  the  sofa. 

His  uncle  retired  to  bed ;  the  servants  followed — 
the  house-maid  alone  was  waiting  up  for  Ranthorpe, 
who  was  at  the  theatre.  Oliver  waited  in  fearful  im- 
patience. Every  thing  had  succeeded  hitherto ;  his 
plan  .seemed  to  succeed  even  in  its  smallest  details. 
But  the  perilous  moment  was  to  come;  his  heart  throb- 
bed violently  as  he  heard  Ranthorpe's  knock — heard 
the  servant  let  him  in — heard  him  take  his  candle,  and 
walk  up  stairs  to  bed — and  heard  the  house-maid  lock 
the  street  door,  and  put  up  the  chain. 

He  breathed  freely  again  as  the  last  sounds  died 
away.  Every  one  was  by  this  time  in  bed.  He  would 
wait  an  hour  or  two  longer,  to  allow  sleep  to  dull  their 
senses;  and  then  the  fatal,  perilous  blow  should  be 
given!  The  clock  ticked  audibly;  and  struck  the  hours 
with  horrible  distinctness.  Oliver  trembled  beneath 
every  stroke.  It  seemed  to  him  so  loud,  that  every  one 
in  the  house  must  be  awakened  by  it.  But  it  ceased,  and 
a  dead  stillness  succeeded.  Then  twelve  sounded ;  then 
one;  and  then  two.  But  these  sounds  seemed  so  loud 
to  him  that  he  could  not  venture  forth — he  could  not  be- 
lieve they  were  unheard  up  stairs.  In  this  state  of  fear 
and  suspense  he  remained  till  three  o'clock. 

He  was  right  in  believing  that  the  sounds  were  heard. 
One  at  least  heard  them  ;  and  that  was  Percy  Ran- 
thorpe. On  entering  his  room  he  had  thrown  himself 
upon  the  sofa  instead  of  undressing ;  and  there  had 
yielded  up  his  imagination  to  the  delights  of  dramatic 
composition.  He  had  come  from  seeing  Macready  in 
a  new   tragedy ;  and  his  own  dramatic  ambition   had 

13  * 


196  RANTHORPE. 

received  a  powerful  stimulus.  Walking  home  he  had 
sketched  the  large  outlines  of  a  tragedy,  and  he  was 
now  thinking  over  some  of  the  scenes.  While  thus 
scheming,  he  sank  asleep  upon  the  sofa;  or  rather  let 
me  say  he  dozed  and  dreamed. 

At  length  he  heard  the  clock  strike  three,  and  be- 
came aware  of  his  position.  He  determined  to  undress 
and  go  to  bed.  But  whoever  has  fallen  asleep  in  a 
chair,  or  on  a  sofa,  knows  how  reluctantly  one  moves 
from  it — how  the  exertion  of  rising  and  undressing  is 
shirked  as  long  as  practicable.  This  reluctance — this 
stupor  of  sleep  was  felt  by  Ranthorpe.  He  lay  there 
making  up  his  mind  to  arise,  and  making  up  his  body 
to  continue  where  he  was. 

From  this  half- waking  state  he  was  startled  by  alow, 
creaking  sound,  as  of  a  step.  In  such  moments  the  sense 
of  hearing  is  very  acute.  The  sound  was  repeated,  and 
repeated.  Some  one  was  slowly  stealing  up  stairs.  He 
sat  up,  and  hstened.  His  heart  beat  so  loud,  that  he 
could  hear  it.  He  was  a  brave  man  :  but  he  was  ner- 
vous and  imaginative.  His  imagination  always  con- 
verted nightly  sounds  into  some  exaggerated  horrors. 
Aware  of  this — aware  of  how  often  he  had  alarmed 
himself  with  puerile  terrors,  aroused  by  trifling  sounds 
at  night — he  refused  to  credit  the  suggestions  which 
crowded  upon  him.  Who  could  be  up  at  this  hour  ? 
Might  it  not  be  a  sound  from  the  next  house  ?  Another 
step  scattered  such  reasonings,  and  redoubled  the  throb- 
bings  of  his  agitated  heart.  There  was  a  robber  in  the 
house!  "And  yet,"  he  thought,  "how  absurd  to  suppose 
a  robbery  committed  in  the  midst  of  London,  in  a 
house,  too,  where  all  the  servants  are  old  and  faithful !" 
But  the  beatings  of  his  heart  could  not  so  be  quieted ! 


NIGHT    OF    THE    MURDER.  I97 

All  was  silent  again.  He  listened  intently.  He  was 
averse  to  go  down  stairs,  and  see  if  any  one  really  were 
in  the  house,  lest  he  should  needlessly  alarm  the  sleepers. 
But  the  sounds  he  heard  were  so  exactly  like  those  of 
some  one  creeping  up  stairs,  that  he  could  not  be  calmed 
by  the  present  quiet,  and  listened  therefore  for  some 
new  indication.  He  sat  motionless;  holding  his  breath, 
and  trying  to  master  the  nervous  beating  of  his  heart, 
that  the  noise  might  not  interfere  with  his  catching  any 
other  sounds.  But  the  nervous  agitation  he  was  in, 
made  a  "ringing  "  in  his  ears,  which  exasperated  him. 

At  length  the  continuance  of  the  silence — only  a  few 
minutes,  but  to  him  they  seemed  almost  an  hour — 
caused  him  to  smile  at  his  suppositions.  He  accused 
himself  of  again  allowing  his  quick  imagination  to  play 
tricks  with  him.  He  was  about  to  get  up  and  undress, 
in  the  full  assurance  that  he  had  needlessly  alarm^ed 
himself,  when  he  fancied  he  heard  a  door  gently  opened. 
His  nerves  again  trembled ;  the  ringing  in  his  ears  came 
back.  Could  he  again  be  cheating  himself?  Was  he 
but  the  victim  to  acute  senses,  and  over-active  imagina- 
tion ?  Unable  to  bear  the  suspense,  he  arose,  deter- 
mined to  go  down  stairs,  and  satisfy  himself.  He  was 
scarcely  on  his  feet,  when  a  muffled  sound  underneath 
made  his  heart  leap  against  his  breast — a  low  groan 
pierced  his  ear,  and  filled  his  mind  with  images  of  hor- 
ror. He  dashed  down  stairs — burst  into  Mr.  Thornton's 
room — where  he  had  only  time  to  see  his  venerable 
friend  half-lying  out  of  bed, — a  fearful  gash  across  his 
throat, — and  to  see  the  assassin  leap  out  of  the  window. 
A  wild  cry  burst  from  him,  as  he  sprang  to  the  windov/, 
and  overturned  a  table,  which  fell  with  a  crash.  With- 
out thinking  of  what  he  was  doing,  he  darted  after  the 


19^  RANTHORPE. 

assassin.  He  leapt  down  upon  the  leads,  and  froni 
thence  into  the  garden.  He  was  in  time  to  run  along 
the  party  wall,  and  meet  the  ruffian  on  the  roof  of  the 
stables,  which  were  at  the  back  of  the  garden. 

Oliver  seeing  himself  so  closely  pursued,  turned  and 
grappled  with  Ranthorpe.  It  was  a  terrible  struggle. 
Both  were  young  and  powerful ;  both  were  animated 
by  fierce  passions.  The  slated  roof  upon  which  they 
stood,  was  but  a  precarious  footing,  and  one  slip  would 
be  fatal.  But  they  closed  !  Ranthorpe  was  too  fiercely 
bent  upon  capturing  the  assassin,  and  bringing  him  to 
justice,  to  think  of  the  most  obvious  means«f  doing  so; 
that  is,  of  calling  out  lustily.  In  terrible  silence  he 
grasped  his  antagonist.  His  heart  bounded  as  he  heard 
the  sounds  of  alarm  proceeding  from  the  house.  Mr. 
Thornton  would  be  attended  to! 

The  struggle,  though  long  to  recount,  was  brief  to 
act.  Oliver  was  the  more  powerful  of  the  two;  and  he 
had  to  struggle  for  life.  With  one  gigantic  eftbrt  he 
disengaged  himself  from  Ranthorpe's  grasp,  and  with  a 
sudden  blow  on  the  chest,  sent  him  reeling  over  the 
roof.  Ranthorpe  fell  into  the  garden,  and  was  stunned 
by  the  fall. 

On  returning  to  his  senses  he  found  himself  in  the 
parlor  surrounded  by  policemen,  servants,  and  strangers. 
Conceive  his  horror  and  indignation  at  finding  that  he 
was  supposed  to  be  the  murderer ! 

He  tried  to  spring  up,  but  his  bruised  frame  refused. 
He  sank  back  upon  the  sofa  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 
Well  as  he  was  assured  that  his  innocence  must  be 
proved  in  a  little  while,  he  gave  himself  up  solely  to  his 
grief  at  the  thought  of  Mr.  Thornton's  dreadful  end. 
All   that  the  unfortunate  old    man   had   been  able    to 


NIGHT    OF    THE    MURDER.  1 99 

articulate  when  the  alarmed  servants  found  him,  was 
*'  Ranthorpe ;  "  and  with  that  he  feebly  pointed  to  the 
window  and  expired. 

This  last  act,  and  this  last  word  of  one  who  loved 
him,  were  interpreted  into  an  accusation  !  "  Mrs.  Grif- 
fith," shrieked  Ranthorpe,  '* where  is  Mrs.  Griffith?" 

"  Here,"  sobbed  that  lady. 

"You,  Mrs.  Griffith,  cannot  you  fi*ee  me  fi-om  this 
loathsome,  this  insulting  suspicion  ?  Cannot  you  testify 
how  I  loved  that  dear  old  man — how  he  loved  me? 
Cannot  you  tell  the  world  how  impossible  it  is  that  I 
could  have  thought  of  such  a  crime  ?  What !  silent  ? 
weeping,  yet  silent?  O  God!  O  God!  even  she  be- 
lieves me  guilty !" 

"  No,  no,  no,  Mr.  Percy,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Griffith — 
her  suspicions  banished  in  an  instant  by  the  pained  in- 
nocence of  his  voice :  "  No,  I  do  not  believe  you 
guilty ;  never  will  I  believe  it ;  but  appearances  are  so 
against  you,  my  testimony  cannot  shake  them.  ' 

"  And  they  are  ?"  he  asked  haughtily. 

"They  are,"  interposed  one  of  the  by-standers, 
"  tolerably  strong.  There  was  no  one  in  the  house  but 
yourself  and  the  servants.  Mrs.  Griffith  had  searched 
every  hole  and  corner  in  company  with  Mr.  Thornton's 
nephew.  No  one,  therefore,  was  concealed.  Yet  the 
house  was  locked  up — no  entrance  had  been  forced; 
consequently,  the  murderer  must  have  been  one  of  the 
inmates.  The  circumstances  which  point  to  you  are 
these :  The  razor  with  which  the  murder  was  com- 
mitted was  yours." 

"  Mine — how  can  you  say  that  ?" 

"  Because  your  razor-case  was  found  open  and 
empty  !" 


200  RANTHORPE. 

Raiithorpe  stared  bewildered.    The  man  continued : 

"  Your  bed  was  found  untouched  ;  you  had  not 
slept  in  it." 

"  True.     I  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  sofa." 

"  You  never  did  so  before  ?" 

"  No," 

"  Exactly.  It  looks  very  suspicious  that  you  should 
have  done  so  then.  You  were  found  lying  in  the  garden, 
having,  it  is  presumed,  fallen  in  an  attempt  to  escape. 
The  last  words  of  Mr.  Thornton  are  enough  to  convict 
you." 

Ranthorpe  sank  back  again.  He  saw  what  a  fatal 
chain  of  circumstances  encircled  him ;  but  he  felt  that 
whoever  had  done  the  deed,  had  marvellously  planned 
it;  and  that  at  present,  at  least,  he  must  endure  the 
suspicions  of  the  world. 

Led  before  the  magistrate,  he  underwent  the  ex- 
amination with  great  calmness  and  haughtiness,  which 
were  mistaken  for  hardened  guilt.  There  again  he  heard 
the  damning  evidence  detailed.  The  servants  all  swore 
that  Oliver  had  left  the  house.  The  house-maid  swore 
she  put  up  the  door-chain,  which  was  found  untouched 
when  the  alarm  was  given.  The  evidence  to  the  mur- 
derer being  one  of  the  inmates  was  conclusive;  the 
evidence  against  Ranthorpe  was  scarcely  less  so.  It 
was  contradicted  indeed  by  the  testimonies  of  the  affec- 
tion which  existed  between  Mr.  Thornton  and  Ran- 
thorpe ;  and  by  the  proofs  that  no  ill-will  had  been  ap- 
parent on  either  side,  nor  had  there  been  any  symptoms 
of  a  quan-el.  These  were  strong  presumptions  against 
the  evidence.  There  seemed  no  possible  motive  why 
Ranthorpe  should  have  committed  the  act,  and  every 
motive  why  he  should  not.    Nevertheless,  the  facts  were 


THE    PURSUIT.  20 1 

SO  damning,  that  the  magistrate  was  forced  to  commit 
him  for  trial. 

The  papers  were  full  of  it.  London  was  divided 
into  two  parties,  one  for  and  one  against  Ranthorpe. 
All  the  literary  men  were  indignant  at  any  one's  believ- 
ing him  guilty.  Was  tliere  ever  known,  they  trium- 
phantly asked,  a  single  instance  of  murder  committed 
by  a  literary  man  ?  Not  one.  And  was  it  probable 
that  a  sane  man,  a  man  like  Ranthorpe,  should  do  that 
to  a  benefactor,  which  no  literary  man  had  ever  been 
known  to  do  to  his  bitterest  enemy,  his  worst  wronger  ? 


CHAPTER     VI. 

THE    PURSUIT. 

Not  a  word ! 
It  is  beyond  debate;  we  must  act  here 
As  men  who  clamber  up  a  precipice. 

Guidone:  a  dramatic  Poem. 

It  was  a  fortunate  illness  that  kept  Isola  to  her  bed 
at  this  time;  she  thus  heard  nothing  of  the  murder,  or 
of  Ranthorpe's  perilous  situation.  His  other  friends 
suffered  greatly  on  his  account.  They  all  believed  him 
innocent,  but  no  one  saw  any  means  of  proving  it. 

Harry,  Wynton,  and  Joyce  discussed  the  whole 
question. 

"  A  thought  occurs  to  me,"  said  Harry,  "  one  of  the 
worst  appearances  against  Ranthorpe  is  the  razor.  Now 
if  we  assume  that  he  is  innocent,  it  follows  that  the  razor 
must  have  been  abstracted  from  his  room  on  the  very 
day,  since  he  himself  must  have  used  it  in  the  morning." 


202  RANTHORPE. 

"  Certainly,  certainly.     A  clue !"  exclaimed  Wynton. 

"  We  have  then  to  ascertain  who  were  the  people 
known  to  have  been  in  the  house  on  that  day," 

"  Exactly,"  said  Joyce,  "  I  happen  to  be  one ;  but  I 
hope  I'm  not  implicated."' 

Wynton  then  said : 

"  I  was  also  there.  But  Mrs.  Griffith  told  me  that 
the  old  gentleman's  nephew  spent  the  evening  there." 

"  He's  our  man !"  exclaimed  Harry,  striking  his 
hand  upon  the  table. 

"  But  he  was  on  the  best  possible  terms  with  his 
uncle,"  said  Wynton. 

"  But  he  is  an  arrant  scamp,"  retorted  Hany,  *'  and 
I  feel  a  perfect  conviction  he  is  the  murderer." 

"Yet  the  servants  heard  him  go  out." 

"  I  don't  care.  I  don't  know  how  he  did  it,  but  I 
am  sure  he's  the  man." 

The  three  then  went  to  the  house;  and  v/hile  Joyce 
and  Wynton  talked  to  Mrs.  Griffith,  Harry  examined 
the  house  with  a  view  of  ascertaining  how  an  entrance 
could  have  been  made.  He  then  went  to  the  stables; 
but  they  betrayed  nothing.  As  he  was  looking  about 
him,  however,  he  discovered  behind  a  dung-heap  a 
man's  hat.  He  picked  it  up;  it  w^as  not  Ranthorpe's. 
He  looked  at  the  maker's  name;  and  telhng  Joyce  that 
he  believed  he  was  on  the  scent,  jumped  into  a  cab,  and 
drove  to  Oxford  Street.  He  entered  the  hatter's  shop, 
and  having  ascertained  that  Oliver  dealt  there,  which 
confirmed  all  his  doubts,  he  ordered  the  cabman  to 
drive  to  Mornington  Place,  Hampstead  Road,  where 
Oliver  lodged. 

He  asked  to  see  the  landlady. 

"I  must  request   profound  secrecy  of  you,  madam, 


THE    PURSUIT.  203 

as  the  life  of  a  fellow-creature  depends  on  it,"  he  said  to 
her.  She  was  considerably  alarmed  at  this  opening. 
"But  will  you  do  me  the  favor  of  telling  me  if  Mr. 
Thornton  stayed  at  home  on  Monday  evening  last  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  he  never  stops  at  home." 

"Humph!  Do  you  happen  to  know  what  time  he 
came  home?" 

"I  do  not,  but  I  can  ask  the  servant;  she  let  him  in. 
It  certainly  was  not  before  one,  because  I  had  some 
friends,  who  did  not  leave  me  till  then." 

"Not  before  one,"  said  Harry  to  himself,  "and  they 
said  he  left  the  house  about  eleven;  good."  Then  ad- 
dressing himself  again  to  her,  "  Do  not,  I  beg,  speak  to 
the  servant  about  it — she  may  blab." 

"  I  suppose  I  dare  not  venture  to  ask  the  reason  of 
this  inquiry?"  she  said,  with  some  curiosity. 

"My  dear  madam,  you  shall  very  quickly  know  all; 
but  at  present  I  must  not  only  be  secret  myself,  but 
most  earnestly  request  you  not  to  mention  a  syllable 
to  any  one  respecting  this  visit.  And  I  need  only  tell 
you  that  by  so  doing  you  will  prevent  the  officers  of 
justice  coming  here  and  bringing  scandal  upon  your 
house." 

This  threat  was  well  devised,  and  had  full  effect. 
The  old  lady  exclaimed:  "Officers  of  justice!" 

"Hush!"  replied  Harry,  "not  a  word.  My  visit  will 
render  theirs  unnecessary;  that  is,  if  you  second  me." 

"Oh,  by  all  means,  and  with  thanks — with  thanks!" 

"  Good;  then  will  you  let  your  servant  have  a  holi- 
day to-morrow  evening  ?  She  will  ask  you  to  go  to  the 
theatre,  and  say  she  has  got  orders.  You  will  not  re- 
fuse?" 

"Certainly  not;  but  what  can  she  be  wanted  for?" 


204  RANTHORPE. 

Harry  laid  his  finger  on  his  Hps  with  grave  signifi- 
cance, and  then  said: 

"  Enough,  she  is  wanted.  Do  not  appear  to  know 
anything,  and  you  will  save  yourself  a  good  deal  of 
trouble.  And  I  forgot  to  add,  that  should  you  notice 
any  men  hanging  about  the  neighborhood,  and  watch- 
ing the  house,  do  not  be  alarmed,  they  will  be  police  in 
plain  clothes.     Make  no  observation." 

He  left  the  house  well  satisfied. 

The  art  of  courting  maid-servants  and  milliners  is  an 
art  much  cultivated  by  medical  students.  It  is  an  art 
by  itself  The  man  who  understands  all  the  labyrinths 
of  a  lady's  heart,  who  is  irresistible  in  the  drawing-room, 
would  miserably  fail  in  the  kitchen.  Filer  le  parfait 
amotir  is  not  the  art  of  love  known  by  the  Ovids  and 
Gentil  Bernards  of  the  lower  regions.  Fun  there  takes 
precedence  of  sentiment;  a  knowledge  of  the  life  of  the 
lower  classes  is  more  necessary  than  a  knowledge  of 
books,  which  is  useless. 

Deeply  skilled  in  this  art  was  Harr)^  Cavendish;  he 
was,  in  fact,  a  distinguished  victimizer.  His  plan  was 
to  get  the  servant  of  all  work  at  the  house  where  Oliver 
lodged,  to  accompany  him  to  the  theatre,  confident  that 
if  he  once  got  her  out,  he  should  be  able  to  learn  all  she 
knew. 

I  cannot  detail  the  progress  of  the  siege.  Sufiice  it 
that  Mary  was  easily  captivated  by  Harry,  and  was  de- 
lighted at  the  idea  of  going  to  see  a  play,  "  a  thing  of 
which  she  was  pertiklar  fond." 

The  reader  is  requested,  therefore,  to  accompany 
them  to  the  pit  of  the  Adelphi  Theatre,  where  John 
Reeve  and  Buckstone  are  making  them  shout  with 
laughter. 


THE    PURSUIT.  205 

"  Oh  !  he's  a  funny  feller,  that  he  is,"  said  Mary,  as 
the  act-drop  fell. 

''  That's  just  it,"  replied  Harry.  "  Lord,  you  should 
see  him  do  the  '  Medical  Student ;'  to  the  life,  and  no 
mistake." 

'^  Lor !" 

"  You  know  what  a  queer  chap  you've  got  among 
your  lodgers,  don't  you  ?" 

"What,  Mr.  Thornton?" 

"  Yes — you'll  have  some  oranges,  Mary  ?  Pooh  ! 
don't  be  modest.     Here,  you  princess! — he!  oranges!'* 

This  was  addressed  to  a  stout  old  woman  who  was 
crushing  the  knees  of  the  audience  as  she  wedged  her- 
self between  the  seats  with  the  melodious  cry  of 
"  Oranges,  ginger-beer,  bill  of  the  play  !" 

"  Now,  xs\y  fat  friejid^^  said  Harry,  as  she  came  up, 
"  let's  see  what  you've  got  in  the  way  of  oranges." 

This  playful  address  made  the  old  woman  grin,  and 
Mary  stuff  her  handkerchief  into  her  mouth  to  hide 
her  laughter.  Some  oranges  were  bought,  and  while 
Harry  was  peeling  one,  he  continued  : 

"  Well,  this  Thornton  was  a  fellow-lodger  of  mine 
once.     Oh,  wasn't  he  a  queer  chap  !" 

"  Oh !  ain't  he  still !  Oh,  no !  Lord,  I  could  tell  you 
such  larks  of  his  !" 

"  Do,  there's  a  dear.  Here's  a  delicious  orange ; 
you  have  it,  Mary  ;  yes,  do.  Well,  I  was  going  to  say 
that  one  night  when  I  sat  up  for  him  because  the  ser- 
vant refused,  how  d'ye  think  he  came  home  ?" 

"  How  ?— Do  tell  us." 

"  Why,  with  his  coat  sHt  up  the  back,  and  without 
his  hat.  He  lost  his  hat  in  a  scuffle,  and  scampered 
home  without  it." 


206  RANTHORPE. 

"  Lor,  ho\v  odd !  I've  a  good  mind — I  say,  you 
won't  tell,  if  I  tell  you  something?" 

"  Oh  !  here's  a  juicy  one  :  do  taste  this,  Mary,  dear. 
Isn't  it  famous  ? — Well,  you  were  going  to  tell  me 
something." 

'•  But  you  promise  not  to  tell  ?  'cos  he'll  give  me 
half-a-sovereign  not  to.  But  then,  to  be  sure,  he  only 
meant  that  I  wasn't  to  tell  missus^  or  the  lodgers,  'cos 
he  would  look  ridiklous.  But  don't  you  say  a -word; — 
he  came  home  t'other  night  in  a  cab,  without  his  hat, 
and  in  such  a  flurry ." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  laughed  Harry,  trying  to  conceal 
his  triumph  in  boisterous  mirth.  "  Well,  that  is  a  good 
one.     Didn't  you  laugh,  Mary  ?" 

"  That  I  did !  •  Lawk !  Mr.  Thornton,'  says  I,  '  why 
where  in  'evin's  name  is  your  hat  ?'  says  I ;  so  says  he, 
*  Mary,'  says  he,  '  I've  been  on  such  a  spree,  but  I've 
had  the  worst  of  it,'  says  he  ;  '  two  chaps  pitched  into 
me,'  says  he,  '  and  I  was  'bliged  to  cut  and  run  for  it. 
Couldn't  stop  for  my  hat,'  says  he,  '  'cos  it  was  an  old 
'un,'  says  he.  '  Quite  right,  too,  Mr.  Thornton,' 
says  I.  '  But  I  say,  Mary,'  says  he,  '  don't  you  say  any 
thing  to  your  missus  about  this,  nor  to  the  lodgers.  Be 
sure  you  don't  say  any  thing  about  my  coming  home 
without  my  hat,'  says  he,  '  'cos  it  would  make  me  look 
so  precious  ridiklous.'  So,  says  I,  '  That  I  won't,'  says  I, 
'Well  then,'  says  he,  '  if  you  do?i't,  Mary,  I'll  give  you 
half-a-sovereign  at  the  end  of  the  month, — if  you  do,  I 
shall  certainly  not'  '  No  fears,'  says  I,  and  gave  him 
his  candle." 

"  Devilish  good !"  said  Harry,  laughing.  "  I  won- 
der whether  it  was  on  Monday  night,  after  he  left 
me  ?" 


THE    PURSUIT.  207 

"Tuesday  morning,  if  you  please — and  precious 
early,  too !  It  was  nearly  four  o'clock,  I'll  swear." 

"  Ha!  ha!  ha!  and  was  he  much  pummelled  about?" 

"No;  he  was  in  a  pickle,  but  not  bruised;  cos  he 
says  he's  a  first-rate  boxer,  and  had  tapped  one  man's 
claret, — some  of  the  blood  was  on  the  front  of  his 
shirt." 

"Well,  he  is  a  rum  one !  But  the  second  act  is  going 
to  begin." 

Harry  had  accomplished  his  object:  he  had  ob- 
tained conclusive  evidence,  so  allowed  Mary  to  enjoy 
the  play  as  she  best  could,  and  left  the  conversation 
almost  entirely  in  her  hands.  She  noticed  this ;  but  he 
pleaded  headache.  He  was  too  occupied  with  his  own 
thoughts,  to  support  any  longer  the  character  he  had 
assumed.  He  was  considering  whether  the  evidence  he 
had  collected  would  be  considered  as  only  presumptive; 
and  fearful  lest  it  might  not  be  sufficient,  he  resolved  on 
an  attempt  to  make  Oliver  confess. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  Mornington  Place.  Oliver 
was  at  home;  indeed,  he  kept  himself  shut  up,  pleading 
the  great  shock  which  his  uncle's  death  had  given  to  his 
nerves.  He  remained  in  his  room,  a  victim  to  the 
avenging  Eumenides.  His  conscience  w^ould  not  be 
stifled.  His  fears  were  terrible.  Every  knock  at  the 
door  went  to  his  heart,  as  if  it  announced  his  arrest. 
Every  noise  in  the  street  sounded  like  the  mob  coming 
to  seize  him.  He  read  the  morning  and  evening  paper 
with  horrible  eagerness.  Every  line  respecting  the  mur- 
der made  him  thrill.  Every  surmise  seemed  to  him 
growing  into  a  certitude  that  he  was  the  guilty  wretch. 
Every  word  in  Ranthorpe's  defence  seemed  to  him  as  if 
it  must  point  him  out  to  justice.     If  his  landlady  came 


2o8  RANTHORPE. 

to  speak  to  him,  to  ask  him  how  he  felt,  or  if  she  could 
get  any  thing  for  him,  he  thought  her  motive  was  to  spy 
upon  him.  If  Mary  spoke  to  him,  or  looked  at  him., 
when  she  came  into  the  room,  he  thought  she  was 
watching  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  with  a  vi€w 
to  read  if  he  were  guilty. 

When  he  was  facing  others,  and  had  to  assume  a 
character,  the  energy  and  attention  necessary  for 
him  to  perform  the  part,  made  him  forget  his  horror 
and  his  fears.  But  left  alone  to  himself,  in  company 
with  his  fears,  existence  was  torture  to  him.  He  had 
thought  of  flying  to  America,  but  was  afraid,  lest  it 
should  look  suspicious.  He  had  tried  to  forget  his 
thoughts  in  one  of  his  favorite  night-houses,  but  before 
he  had  been  there  three  minutes,  the  subject  of  the  recent 
murder  was  spoken  of,  and  he  was  forced  to  hurry 
away. 

He  scarcely  slept;  and  when  he  did  sink  into  an  un- 
easy doze,  horrible  dreams  tortured  him.  Thus  night 
and  day,  and  day  and  night,  he  was  racked  by  the  most 
wearing  of  agonies — suspense  and  fear! 

Such  was  his  suffering,  that  he  was  often  on  the 
point  of  blowing  his  brains  out,  and  so  ending  his 
misery.  He  had,  in  fact,  made  up  his  mind  to  do  so, 
and  would  probably  have  done  so,  on  the  very  morning 
when  Harry,  without  undergoing  the  formality  of  an- 
nouncing himself,  walked  into  his  room.  He  started, 
as  usual,  when  any  one  put  a  hand  on  the  lock  of  his 
door. 

"Oh!  it's  you,  is  it.  Cavendish?"  he  said.  "Well 
any  news  about  your  friend  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Harry,  carelessly  seating  himself, 
"very  good  news  for  us;    the  murderer  is  discovered." 


THE    PURSUIT. 


209 


As  he  said  this,  he  raised  his  eyes  full  upon  Oliver,  who 
vainly  endeavored  to  withdraw  all  expression  from  his 
face.  He  cowered  beneath  Harry's  gaze,  and  faltered 
out :  "  How — discovered  ?" 

"  By  very  simple  means — from  the  description  of  his 
person  given -by  Ranthorpe,  which  was  not  very  ac- 
curate, and  from  some  other  suspicious  circumstances,  I 
thought  I  could  name  the  man.  His  hat,  which  had 
been  dropped  in  the  struggle,  was  found  in  the  stables,'' 
— (here  Oliver  glared  upon  him  like  a  wild  beast) — 
"  and  I  found  the  maker's  name.  You  will  naturally 
suppose  I  lost  no  time  in  asking  that  maker  if  he  made 
liats  for  the  person  I'm  speaking  of,  and  his  reply  was 
satisfactory." 

"  Go  on !"  hoarsely  whispered  Oliver. 

"  The  rest  of  my  story  is  too  long  to  relate  in  detail. 
Enough,  that  I  ascertained  from  the  servant  who  let 
him  in,  that  the  individual  I  speak  of  came  home  on 
Tuesday  morning  ivithout  his  hat."  Oliver's  breath  was 
suspended;  his  eyes  were  bloodshot  with  suppressed 
rage.  "  Not  only  without  his  hat,  but  with  blood  upon 
his  shirt;  and,  to  crown  all,  he  promised  the  servant 
half-a-sovereign. — You  need  not  fix  your  eyes  upon  that 
knife !  Take  it,  if  you  please ;  you  dare  not  use  it 
against  me.  And  if  you  dare — if  your  murderous  heart 
has  sufficient  courage,  your  murderous  hand  has  only 
strength  enough  to  cope  with  sleeping  old  men." 

This  was  said  with  such  crushing  scorn  and  loath- 
ing, that  Oliver  bounded  like  a  panther  upon  him — the 
knife  flashed  in  the  air — and  had  Harry  been  less  active 
or  less  prepared,  it  would  have  entered  his  breast ;  but, 
accustomed  as  he  was  to  single-stick,  his  quick  eye  and 
ready  arm  saved  him  from  the  danger.     A  sharp  blow 


2IO  RANTHORPE. 

with  an  oak-stick  upon  the  ruffian's  wrist,  made  him 
drop  the  knife. 

"  I  told  you  it  was  useless,"  said  Harry,  coolly. 

"You  know  my  secret!"  yelled  the  exasperated 
Oliver,  snatching  up  the  knife  again — "  and,  you  shall 
pay  for  it." 

"This  time  I  warn  you,"  replied  Harry;  ■"  I  shall 
not  content  myself  disarming  you."  And  he  placed 
himself  in  an  attitude  of  defence. 

"  This  time,"  said  Oliver,  grinding  his  teeth — '•  I 
may  as  well  swing  for  two  as  for  one." 

A  rapid  blow  on  the  elbow  made  his  arm  fall  useless 
at  his  side,  and  at  the  same  instant  the  door  was  flung 
open,  and  two  policemen  rushed  in.  At  this  sight  Oliver 
made  an  attempt  to  escape  out  of  the  window,  but  the 
attempt  was  fruitless.  He  was  soon  handcuffed,  and 
borne  off  to  prison. 

"  Mary,"  said  Harry,  "  I've  deprived  you  of  half-a- 
sovereign — but  there  are  two  halves  as  compensation ; 
besides  the  satisfaction  you  must  feel  in  having  been  the 
instrument  of  this  ruffian's  conviction." 

"  Lawk !  well,  who  would  have  thouglit  it !"  was  the 
reflection  of  the  consoled  Mary. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

THE    TURNING   POINT. 

To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 

Shakspeare, 


C/J 


Ranthorpe  was  released,  and  in  due  time  Oliver 
was  executed.     But  although  our  hero  had  escaped  the 


THE    TURNINCx    POINT.  211 

peril,  he  had  not  escaped  the  curse  of  notoriety.  The 
tragical  events  in  which  he  had  been  impHcated  were 
of  themselves  distressing  enough.  His  friend  murdered 
— that  kind,  good,  strange  old  man,  removed  for  ever 
from  his  love — this  alone  was  sufficient  to  depress  him. 
But  to  this  was  added  the  painful  curiosity  of  strangers, 
which  not  only  kept  his  wounds  open,  but  made  him 
feel  himself  an  object  of  notoriety. 

One  incident  I  cannot  omit,  it  is  so  illustrati\'e  of 
theatrical  life.  A  fortnight  after  his  acquittal,  the 
manager  of  a  minor  theatre,  which  shall  be  nameless, 
called  upon  him,  and  with  inimitable  effrontery  proposed 
that  Ranthorpe  should  sustain  his  oivn  character  in  a 
new  piece  about  to  be  produced,  entitled  "  The  Dark 
Deed;  or,  the  Knightsbridge  Murder." 

"  If  you  will  undertake  this  sHght  part,"  continued 
the  manager,  "  I  can  offer  you  a  splendid  salary — fifty 
pounds  a  week,  sir;  fifty  pounds  a  week!" 

Ranthorpe  was  half  irritated,  half  amused,  but  shook 
his  head  negatively. 

"  Don't  refuse  it,  pray,  sir ;  consider  fifty  pounds  a 
week — come,  I  don't  mind  it  I  say  seventy  pounds — 
and  absolutely  nothing  to  do  but  to  rush  into  the  room 
— give  a  start — look  aghast — and  shriek,  '  Ha' '  and  to 
reappear  as  the  accused  murderer,  with  your  dress  a 
little  disarranged — that's  all,  sir." 

"I  fear,"  replied  Ranthorpe,  smiling,  "that  all  would 
be  far  too  much  for  me.  I  must  decline  being  any 
further  mixed  up  with  this  matter." 

"Timid,  I  suppose;  but  you'll  soon  shake  off  that." 

"No,  sir,  I  shall  never  shake  off  my  disgust  at  the 
infamous  desecration  of  the  privacies  of  life,  which  that 
system  of  dramatizing  recent  events  fosters.     It  is  bad 


212  RANTHORPE. 

enough  to  see  the  newspapers  pander  to  the  vile  ap- 
petites of  the  blood-loving  public.  The  stage  has  not 
the  excuse  of  the  papers." 

He  rose  as  he  said  this,  and  the  manager  was  forced 
to  take  his  leave.  He  returned,  however,  speedily,  and 
said :  "  Mr.  Ranthorpe,  I  appreciate  your  motives,  ^ou 
don't  like  to  appear  before  the  lamps.  But  you  can 
still  assist  me;  and  I  will  pay  for  the  assistance.  Sell 
me  the  razor  with  which  the  murder  was  committed — 
I'll  give  fifty  pounds  for  it.  All  London  will  flock  to 
ray  theatre  to  see  the  real  razor!  Think  what  posters  I 
could  give!  Every  Night — *The  Dark  Deed.'  In 
which  the  real  razor  used  by  the  murderer  wilt  be  intro- 
duced.     Come  early '^ 

The  manager  was  quite  exalted  at  the  imaginary 
prospect  of  such  an  attraction;  but  he  quickly  scampered 
down  stairs,  as  he  saw  Ranthorpe  approach  him,  breath- 
less with  indignation. 

Harry  laughed  heartily  when  he  heard  of  it,  and  de- 
clared the  manager  was  a  knowing  fellow,  who  rightly 
appreciated  the  public. 

But  Ranthorpe  could  bear  this  notoriety  no  longer. 
He  resolved  on  quitting  England.  He  was  unhappy; 
he  was  purposeless.  To  be  always  regarded  as  the  Mr. 
Ranthorpe,  who  had  figured  in  the  papers  as  the  mur- 
derer of  his  benefactor,  was  peculiarly  galling  to  him. 

It  had  been  his  day-dream  to  have  his  name  in 
everybody's  mouth;  that  dream  was  now  realized  in  a 
hateful  shape.  He  had  aspired  to  celebrity,  and  had 
been  forced  into  notoriety. 

He  thought  of  Germany.  He  could  teach  English 
there,  as  a  means  of  livelihood;  and  while  doing  so,  not 
only  would  the  public  forget  him,  and  his  history,  but  he 


THE    TURNING    POINT.  213 

would  also  be  preparing  himself  more  fitly  for  his  career. 
Germany  would  afford  him  subsistence — study — and 
oblivion. 

A  day  or  two  before  his  departure,  he  read  with 
strange  agitation  the  announcement  of  the  marriage  of 
Florence  Wilmington  with  Sir  Frederick  Hawbucke, 
Baronet. 

"So,  the  coquette  married  at  last!"  he  said,  as  he  laid 
the  paper  down,  "and  to  that  rich  fool,  Hawbucke. 
Well,  they  will  both  be  miserable." 

The  train  of  thought  which  this  incident  awakened 
was  extremely  painful  to  him.  The  past  rose  before 
him,  and  it  was  full  of  reproaches.  He  saw  himself 
again  the  happy  boy,  elated  by  ambition,  undaunted  by 
poverty — he  saw  himself  a  lion,  and  dazzled  by  a  small 
success — he  reviewed  the  progress  of  corruption,  as  it 
had  contaminated  his  mind,  and  deadened  his  feelings — 
he  saw  himself  ensnared  by  the  arts  of  a  coquette — lived 
over  again  the  humiliation  of  his  rejected  love,  the  failure 
of  his  tragedy,  and  his  last  misfortune. 

"Well,  I  shall  leave  England,"  he  said,  "and  leave 
behind  me  the  memory  of  these  errors.  A  new  epoch 
opens.  In  Germany,  I  shall  learn  not  only  to  forget 
the  follies  and  errors  of  my  youth,  but,  by  being  removed 
from  everything  that  can  recall  them,  be  enabled  to 
work  out  a  path  for  myself  undisturbed.  Driven  from 
England,  in  Germany  I  shall  gain  quiet  contentment." 

Self-exiled  from  his  native  land,  he  has  now  reached 
the  great  turning-point  in  his  career.  How  will  he 
prosper  ? 


214  RANTHORPE. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE    MISERIES    OF    GENIUS. 

We  poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness ; 

But  thereof  comes  in  the  end  despondency  and  madness  ! 

Wordsworth, 

And  mighty  poets  in  their  misery  dead  ! 

Ibid. 

D — n  the  Muses  !  I  abominate  them  and  their  works  ;  they  are 
the  nurses  of  poverty  and  insanity  ! 

Chatterton. 

There  is  not  in  all  the  martyrologies  that  ever  were  penned,  so 
rueful  a  narrative  as  that  of  the  hves  of  poets. 

Burns. 
Most  wretched  men 
Are  cradled  into  poetry  from  wrong  ; 
They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  song. 

Shelley. 

Gli  scrittori  grandi,  incapaci,  per  natura  o  per  abito,  di  molti 
piaceri  umani ;  privi  di  altri  molti  pervolunta;  non  di  rado  negletti 
nel  consorzio  degli  uomini,  se  non  forse  dai  pocchi  che  seguono  i 
medesimi  studi ;  hanno  per  destino  di  condurre  una  vita  simile  alia 
morte,  e  vivere,  se  pur  1'  ottengono,  dopo  sepolti. 

Glacomo  Leopardl 

Thus  has  Percy  Ranthorpe  struggled  and  suffered. 
He  is  now  sailing  on  the  restless  bosom  of  the  sea,  and 
filling  the  monotonous  hours  with  his  retrospections. 
They  are  bitter.  His  lot  has  not  been  happy;  but  with 
whom  lies  the  fault  ?  Does  he,  like  so  many  of  his  kin- 
dred, throw  the  burden  of  his  woes  upon  his  genius  ? 
Does  he  attribute  to  his  genius  those  sorrows  which, 
properly  speaking,  have  been  caused  by  his  want  of 
genius?  No;  he  does  not  juggle  with  himself;  he  feels 
that  he  has  been  weak  and  has  been  punished ;  he  feels 
that  the  common  cant  of  genius  being  a  fatal  gift — a 
Nessus-poisoned  shirt,  that  consumes  the  wearer,  is  a 


THE    MISERIES    OF    GENIUS.  21 5 

cant,  and  nothing  more.  It  is  an  error  founded  on  the 
most  superficial  indications,  founded  too  often  on  the 
complaints  of  genius  itself. 

Genius  miserable  !  Genius  a  fatal  gift !  O  miserable 
philosophy  that  can  so  construe  it !  Genius  is  the  faculty 
of  creation,  of  admiration,  of  love.  It  creates,  from  the 
merest  dross,  spirits  of  beauty  which  haunt  the  soul 
through  hfe.  It  peoples  the  world  with  lovely  forms, 
exalted  hopes,  skyward  aspirings,  and  everlasting  joy: 
and,  because  the  sensibility,  which  is  its  condition,  sub- 
jects it  to  petty  annoyances,  annoyances  unfelt,  or  not 
so  keenly  felt,  by  others;  because  its  enthusiasm  carries 
it  oftentimes  from  the  path  of  prudence ;  and  because 
the  punishment  which  follows  all  error  is  not  for  it  sus- 
pended, but  falls  as  upon  an  ordinary  nature's;  because, 
with  the  precious  faculty  of  giving  an  utterance  to  all  its 
pains  and  pleasures,  it  someiimes  breaks  forth  into  a  low 
plaint,  or  bitter  irony,  or  wild  despair,  and  in  those 
moments  curses  the  very  source  of  all  its  greatness; 
because,  I  say,  these  things  are  found  accompanying 
genius,  like  shadows  of  its  glories,  is  genius  therefore  to 
be  called  a  fatal  gift  ?  Is  it  not  genius,  great  majesdc 
genius,  in  spite  of  all  ?  The  sun  "  kisses  carrion,"  but 
is  not  less  the  sun ! 

For  shame !  ye  coward  and  blaspheming  souls,  who 
bowing  under  ^prese?it  affliction,  have  cursed  your  lives, 
as  if  they  were  made  up  of  affliction  !  For  shame !  ye 
poets,  who  have  carried  within  you  an  exhaustless  mine 
of  wealth,  yet  knowing  one  day's  poverty,  have  lifted 
up  your  desperate  voices  to  swell  the  universal  cry  of 
pauperism  !  For  sliame  !  ye  rashly-judging  critics  who 
have  seized  upon  this  single  cry,  and  exclaimed, 
"  Listen!  such  is  the  expression  of  a  life  I" 


2  10  RANTHORPE. 

We  are  mortal  men — erring  and  infirm ;  there  are 
miseries  awaiting  us  under  every  form  of  life;  errors 
beset  every  profession,  unhappiness  darkens  the  prospect 
of  the  most  fortunate.  Shall  we  then  drag  from  the 
hospitals  of  the  world  all  the  squalid  sick,  and  holding 
up  their  miseries,  exclaim — "  Behold:  such  is  life!"  for- 
getting all  the  health  and  strength,  the  beauty  and  en- 
joyment which  surround  us  ?  Because  poets  have 
been  poor,  and  have  been  driven  by  poverty  to  irregu- 
larities, and  sometimes  to  despair,  thus  wasting  their 
lives  in  infamous  debaucheries,  or  in  squalid  misery — is 
therefore  genius  a  fatal  gift  ?  If  so,  then  where  are  all 
the  outcasts  of  society,  the  disappointed  men  in  other 
ranks  of  life,  men  not  endowed  with  genius  ?  Whence 
come  all  the  moral  and  social  miseries  endured  by  those 
who  have  no  claim  to  genius  ?  Does  the  physician 
never  starve  ?  Is  the  barrister  never  briefless  ?  Has 
the  clergyman  always  a  living  ?  Do  these  men  never 
complain  of  their  hard  lot?  Yes,  they  complain,  but 
their  complaint  is  drowned  amidst  the  multitude ;  and 
neither  they,  nor  the  world,  attribute  their  misfortunes 
to  their  talents ! 

Observe,  that  all  the  events  of  an  artist's  life  become 
public,  and  are  exaggerated  by  publicity;  whereas  the 
events  of  other  men's  lives  rarely  gain  attention.  Suicide 
is  daily  committed,  and  statistical  tables  show  a  frightful 
amount  of  human  life  thus  sacrificed,  which  never 
occupies  the  public  mind ;  but  when  (as  has  happened 
perhaps  half  a  dozen  times)  some  disappointed  genius 
madly  rushes  from  the  world  to  hide  in  eternity  his 
sorrow  and  despair,  then  the  sad  news  rings  through 
every  country,  and  is  deplored  on  all  sides,  serving  for 
ages  as  an  example  of  the  "fatal  gift!" 


THE    MISERIES    OF    GENIUS.  217 

So,  if  a  genius  suffers  the  envy,  hatred,  malice,  and 
all  uncharitableness  which  man  heaps  on  the  head  of 
his  brother,  then  we  have  a  vehement  protest  against  it 
in  written  works ;  he  bares  his  bleeding  wounds  to 
public  gaze,  and  bids  the  world  observe  the  reward  he 
has  reaped — and  he  is  pitied ! 

But  do  not  others  daily  suffer  this  ?  Is  there  no 
lacerated  self-love  moaning  in  privacy,  without  the 
power  of  a  picturesque  appeal  ?  an  appeal,  recollect, 
that  is  itself  an  exquisite  gratification  !  Other  men,  be- 
sides Lord  Byron,  were  deformed,  ill-taught,  deceived, 
ill-used  by  friends  and  relations,  and  suffered  from  these 
affronts  as  keenly ;  but  Byron  could  fuse  the  passion  of 
defiance  and  the  pathos  of  his  sorrows  into  splendid 
verse,  and  so  draw  down  the  pity  and  the  admiration  of 
all  Europe.  Nor  was  this  pity  and  this  admiration  all 
the  consolation  he  received ;  with  it  he  received  intense 
delight  from  the  exercise  of  his  poetic  faculty;  there  was 
a  rapture  in  thus  sublimating  his  sorrows  into  monu- 
ments of  beauty,  to  which  few  joys  were  comparable. 
His  sorrows,  in  a  great  part,  made  him  what  he  was; 
without  his  m.elancholy  and  defiance,  his  scepticism  and 
misanthrophy,  his  wrongs  and  insults,  what  would  he 
have  been  ?  He  differed  from  other  men  in  being  able 
to  give  his  sufferings  a  picturesque  expression,  not  in 
the  sufferings  themselves. 

It  is  because  the  events  of  an  artist's  life  are  made 
public,  that  his  sorrows  and  errors  are  brought  into  un- 
due prominence,  casting  shadows  on  all  the  sunshine  of 
his  private  joys.  Whatever  arouses  him  to  defiance, 
whatever  wrings  from  him  complaint,  the  world  is  called 
upon  to  notice.  But  all  that  stirs  his  soul  to  rapture — 
all  the  intoxicating  visions  of  beauty  and  of  glory  which 


2l8  RANTHORPE. 

exalt  his  mind — all  the  secret  reveries  (coquetries  of 
thought)  which  haunt  him  in  his  solitude — all  the 
passion  of  aspiration,  and  the  delight  in  creation — these 
the  world  can  never  know :  these  are  locked  in  his  own 
breast :  these  form  the  eieme?it  in  which  he  lives,  and 
from  which  he  is  only  wrenched  by  those  occasional 
misfortunes,  over  which  he  weeps  so  melodiously. 

Genius  a  fatal  gift?  Ah,  no!  it  is  the  greatest  and 
the  happiest  of  endowments 

' '  Oh  !  who  would  lose 
Though  full  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being, 
Those  thoughts  that  wander  through  eternity?  " 

Conceive  the  intense  delight  genius  must  feel  when 
creating  forms  of  everlasting  beauty?  Who  shall  esti- 
mate the  rapture  which  glowed  in  the  mind  of  Shak- 
speare  when  he  created  Viola,  Imogen,  Perdita  or  J  uliet 
— or  of  Goethe  when  he  drew  Gretchen,  Clarchen, 
Mignon,  or  Faust?  I  sometimes  feel,  Vv^hile  hstening  to 
Beethoven,  a  rapture  so  intense,  absorbing,  suffocating, 
that  it  verges  upon  pain,  and  is  only  relieved  by  sighs; 
at  such  times  I  ask  myself:  "  What  could  have  bee7i  pass- 
ing in  his  soul  when  he  conceived  such  unutterable  ten- 
der?iess  and  beauty?''  Only  think  of  the  visions  he 
must  have  had  before  he  could  have  written  his  Pasto- 
rale! what  thoughts  must  have  oppressed  him  before 
they  found  utterance  in  his  Symphonies  of  C  minor  and 
B  fiat!  What  gloom — sublime,  mystical,  terrible, — must 
have  visited  him  before  he  could  have  written  the  Mar- 
cia  sulla  morte  d'un  Eroe !  What  witcheries  of  grace 
and  beauty  must  have  haunted  him  before  he  could  have 
thought  of  his  Septuor!  Such  raptures — if  enduring 
only  for  a  moment — were  worthy  of  years  of  suffering ! 


THE    MISERIES    OF    GENIUS.  219 

Genius  is  the  happiest,  as  it  is  the  greatest,  of  human 
facuhies.  It  has  no  immunity  from  the  common  sor- 
rows of  humanity;  but  it  has  one  glorious  privilege, 
which  it  alone  possesses ;  the  privilege  of  turning  its 
sorrows  into  beauty,  and  brooding  delighted  over  them! 
The  greatest  that  ever  breathed  has  said, 

"  Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity; 
Which  hke  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head  !  " 

But  it  is  only  genius  that  can  extract  the  jewel,  and  walk 
the  path  of  life  illumined  by  its  light. 

Adversity  is  an  outrage  to  the  common  man,  an  ex- 
perience to  the  thinking  man,  a  source  of  pleasure  to  the 
man  of  genius.  The  one  revolts  against,  or  else  sinks 
under  it;  the  second  grapples  with  it,  and  wrests  some 
compensation  for  its  pains;  the  third  transmutes  it  into 
beauty,  and  places  it  in  the  storehouse  of  sweetly-pen- 
sive memory;  and  thus 

"  Spat  erklingt  was  friih  erklang, 
Gliick  und  Ungluck  wird  Gesang."* 

Perhaps,  by  reason  of  its  very  unworldliness,  genius 
is  oftener  laboring  under  the  ban  of  poverty,  and  the 
miseries  which  poverty  will  bring,  than  regulated  dulness 
or  presumptuous  mediocrity.  But  can  we  therein  forget 
the  exquisite  enjoyment — the  passion  and  the  rapture 
which  constitute  its  daily  food  ?  for  genius  is  fed  by  rap- 
ture, and  transmutes  all  its  pains  into  pleasures. 

That  the  lives  of  men  of  genius  are  embittered  by 
many  miseries,  it  would  be  folly  to  deny.  Bad  health — 
bad  habits,  and  mistaken  aims — as  well  as  those  more 

*  Guthe. 


2  20  RANTHORPE. 

common  "ills  the  flesh  is  heir  to"  are  not  without  their 
stings;  but  these  are  the  accidents  and  not  the  conse- 
qiuTues  of  genius.  Double  them,  treble  them,  and  yo\x 
will  still  be  unable  to  counterbalance  with  them  all  the 
pleasures  of  a  life  of  thought! 


BOOK     V. 


ISOLA. 


Soothe  her  with  sad  stories, 

O  poet,  till  she  sleep  ! 

Dreams,  come  forth  with  all  your  glories! 

Night  breathe  soft  and  deep  ! 

Music  round  her  creep  ! 

If  she  steal  away  to  weep. 

Seek  her  out — and  when  you  find  her, 

Gentle,  gentlest  Music,  wind  her 

Round  and  round. 

Round  and  round, 

With  your  bands  of  softest  sound. 

Barry  Cornwaill. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE     HAWBUCKES. 

La  reine  en  cette  cour  qu'anime  la  folie, 

Va,  vient,  chante,  se  tait,  regarde,  ecoute,  oublie. 

Andre  Chenier, 

The  stage  is  clear;  I  may,  therefore,  bring  forward 
Florence  in  a  nev/  character,  and  allow  her  husband  to 
make  his  debut. 

Florence  Wilmington  has  become  Lady  Hawbucke; 
that  is  to  say,  mistress  of  one  of  the  handsomest  men, 
and  prettiest  properties  in  England.  Few  brides  could 
have  been  happier,  more  beautiful,  or  more  buoyant. 
She  admired  her  husband  more  than  she  had  ever  ad- 
mired any  one  before;  and  although  she  could  hardly 
be  said  to  love  him,  in  any  earnest  sense  of  the  word, 
she  felt  that  she  must  be  supremely  happy  as  his  wife ; 
and  the  gay  volatile  creature  thoroughly  enjoyed  all  the 
preparations  for  her  wedding,  as  more  amusing  even 
than  the  preparations  for  her  "coming  out." 

Sir  Frederick  Hawbucke  was  a  type  of  the  English 
gentleman.  His  Herculean  frame,  which  would  have 
been  clumsy  in  a  clown,  was  carried  with  such  ease  and 
simplicity  that  his  height  merely  added  to  his  dignity. 
Supreme  in  all  corporeal  exercises — a  bold  rider — a 
dead  shot — there  was  nothing  in  his  manner  which  in 
the  slightest  degree  indicated  either  the  roughness  of 
the  sportsman,  or  the  pride  of  physical  superiority.  He 
had  been  the  same  as  a  boy — quiet  and  inoffensive  in 


2  24  RANTHORPE. 

ordinary,  but  terrible  in  passion,  and  irresistible  in  a 
struggle.  There  were  fearful  stories  told  of  him  at 
Eton — of  terrible  reprisals  taken  on  those  who  had  of- 
fended him.  Brave  as  a  lion,  and  as  ferocious,  his 
nature  was  excessively  English,  and  might  be  compared 
to  that  of  the  bull-dog,  which,  as  connoisseurs  well 
know,  is  the  dog  of  dogs  for  the  strange  union  of  inof- 
fensiveness  and  implacability.  To  see  Sir  Frederick  in  a 
room,  you  would  fancy  him  the  quietest  and  dullest  of 
human  beings.  In  action,  of  any  kind,  he  was  the 
promptest  and  bravest:  cool,  resolute,  and  irresistible. 

He  was  very  handsome,  but  not  in  the  least  con- 
ceited. Morbidly  alive  to  the  opinion  of  the  world 
upon  the  slightest  matter  connected  with  himself,  and 
wholly  indifferent  to  every  thing  concerning  others;  but 
he  concealed  the  former  under  the  same  mask  of  indif- 
ference as  the  latter.  Indeed,  so  extraordinary  was  his 
self-command,  that  people  never  divined  when  they 
tortured  him  with  their  remarks;  his  stoicism  forbade 
his  admitting  the  possibility  of  any  thing  wringing  a  cry 
from  him. 

When  Ranthorpe  called  him  "that  rich  fool,"  he 
judged  him  superficially.  Sir  Frederick's  intelligence 
was  somewhat  above  the  average;  he  had  cultivated  it; 
but  that  want  of  impulsiveness  which  distinguishes  the 
Saxon — that  heavy,  phlegmatic  organization,  which 
gives  its  peculiarity  to  the  English  standard  of  good 
breeding,  and  which  regards  the  demonstration  of  any 
feeling  whatever  as  bordering  on  vulgarity — that  very 
English  virtue,  "reserve" — made  Sir  Frederick  always 
appear  to  his  disadvantage.  He  was  voted  dull  by 
lively  asses,  and  ignorant  by  ostentatious  pretenders. 

When  this  large,  solid,  quiet  creature  first  saw  Flor- 


THE    HAWBUCKES.  225 

ence,  he  became  enamoured  of  her.  The  contradiction 
of  her  character  to  his  own  was  the  great  source  of  at- 
traction, as  is  usually  the  case.  The  heavy,  solid  giant, 
with  a  brain  as  solid,  but  as  unwieldy  as  his  arm,  was  ra- 
vished— if  so  strong  an  expression  may  be  applied  to  so 
circumspect  and  reserved  a  nature — by  the  gay,  careless, 
witty,  fragile,  haughty,  coquettish  Florence.  His  plain 
common-sense  had  its  sparkling  antithesis  in  her  playful 
nonsense.  He  could  have  taken  her  in  his  hand  like  a 
toy,  and  he  crouched  at  her  feet  hke  the  timidest  of  her 
spaniels.  She  seemed  so  light  and  airy  a  creature,  that 
an  embrace  of  his  would  have  crushed  her ;  and  yet  he 
felt  as  awkward  and  powerless  in  her  presence,  as  if  his 
giant  strength  had  passed  to  her. 

Bashful  and  silent,  he  followed  her  wherever  she 
went.  At  every  party  she  was  sure  to  meet  Sir  Fred- 
erick ;  in  every  country-house  where  she  went,  he  was 
sure  to  be  found.  But  a  thought  of  his  affection  never 
presented  itself  to  her.  He  was  always  so  placid,  so 
dull,  and  so  very  indifferent,  that  his  manner  justified 
her  saying,  "  I  like  to  have  Sir  Frederick  in  the  house. 
He's  always  about  me;  I  look  on  him  as  a  sort  of 
tame  cat.  You  can't  consider  him  a  companion,  but 
you  like  to  hear  his  purr,  and  Hke  to  admire  his 
beauty." 

This  silent  courtship  continued  for  some  time,  and 
was  in  progress  during  her  flirtation  with  Ranthorpe, 
which  gave  Sir  Frederick  such  alarm,  that  he  more 
than  once  thought  of  challenging  his  happy  rival; 
which  he  certainly  would  have  done,  had  the  flirtation 
not  ended. 

Indeed,  I  see  not  how  the  ice  could  have  been 
broken  by  any  eifort  on  his  part.     Florence  never  could 

15 


2  20  RANIHURPE. 

suspect  that  the  quiet,  gentlemanly,  indiftercnt  person, 
who,  though  always  at  her  side,  never  seemed  roused 
by  her  liveliness,  or  charmed  by  her  beauty,  had  any 
love  for  her.  If  she  occasionally  talked  more  to  him, 
or  j)aid  him  more  attention  than  usual,  the  only  effect 
])roduced  was  that  of  increased  dulness  in  Sir  Frederick. 
For,  in  truth,  liis  invincible  shyness  paralyzed  his  tongue; 
and  because  he  wanted  above  all  things  to  stand  well 
in  her  opinion,  he  was  unable  to  venture  beyond  com- 
monplaces. Directly  she  approached  him,  he  shrunk 
under  the  mask  of  reserve,  as  the  tortoise  shrinks  under 
its  impenetrable  shell. 

His  aunt  came  to  his  relief.  She  knew  his  character, 
and  divined  the  state  of  his  feelings ;  and  knowing  that 
lie  would  never  venture  without  great  encouragement 
to  give  a  hint  of  his  affection,  she  one  day  said  to 
Florence,  as  they  were  walking  about  Rushfield  Park,* 
where  they  were  all  three  staying  on  a  visit : 

"  Well,  my  dear  Miss  Wilmington,  now  do  tell  mc 
how  long  you  intend  keeping  Sir  Frederick  in  liis 
present  suspense  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  When  is  he  to  he  made  a  happy  man  ?" 

"  Sir  Frederick  Hawbucke  ?  I  make  ? — (/// .'  Madafnt\ 
J'v  I'ois  quclquc  viystificationr 

"  Not  in  the  least.     I  am  serious,  I  assure  you." 

"  Allans  done  !     What,  my  tame  cat  ' " 

"  You  may  joke  as  you  please,  but  you  will  not  con-> 
vince  me,  my  dear,  that  you  have  not  long  been  aware 
of  his  attentions." 

''  His  attentions!  Ic  mot  est Joli,  vraimcnt I — atten- 
tions, which  consist  in  standing  by  me  without  opening 
his  lips,  dancing  with   me  without   an  extra  sparkle  in 


THE    HAWBUCKES.  227 

his  eye,  riding  with  me  without  a  single  pretty  terror, 
without  owQ  prh'e nance,  hving  under  the  same  roof  witli 
me,  and  never  thawing  into  hikewarm  interest." 

"  Does  he  not  always  follow  you  about  ? — Is  he  not 
always  sitting  next  to  you  ?" 

^''  Precisement f  like  a  tame  cat;  and  I  like  him  for  it. 
But  you  do  not  mean  to  assert  that  that  is  his  mode  of 
paying  his  addresses — hehi  ?  " 

"  I  do.  Allow  me,  who  have  known  him  from 
childhood,  to  assure  you  that  underneath  that  silent, 
reserved  manner,  there  beats  the  most  passionate  heart 
in  the  world.  Still  streams,  you  know,  run  deepest. 
His  nature  is  as  deep  as  it  is  silent;  so  deep,  indeed,  that 
though  I  have  watched  him  from  childood,  I  have  not 
3'et  sounded  the  bottom.  He  has  the  most  superb  con- 
tempt for  all  the  little  nothings  which  young  men  in 
general  conceive  themselves  bound  to  display  for  our 
amusement.  He  hates  affectation;  he  hates  anything 
like  a  demonstration  to  others  of  what  is  passing  in  his 
own  heart.  He  is  shy;  and  this  makes  him  silent  and 
embarrassed.  Now  when  I  sav/  him  following  you  from 
place  to  place,  sitting  by  your  side,  more  silent  to  you 
than  to  any  one  else,  I  was  convinced  you  had  captivated 
his  timid,  passionate  heart.  1  have  since  been  confirmed 
in  this." 

"And  did  he  employ  you  to  make  the  declaration, 
which  he  dared  not  make  himself?" 

"  Not  in  the  least.  He  never  mentions  you.  He 
would  not  whisper  his  affection  to  any  human  being; 
his  pride  would  forbid  it.  But,  my  dear  Miss  Wilming- 
ton, if  you  doubt  what  I  say,  observe  him  closely — see 
if  he  is  not  more  reserved  with  you  than  with  any  one — 
yet,  he  is  always  seeking  to  be  near  you." 


2  28  RANTHORPE. 

"And  when  I  have  discovered  his  nffection,  Avhat 
am  I  to  do  with  it?" 

"  Not  trifle  with  it — why  should  you  not  return  it  ? 
He  is  worthy  of  you,  and  he  would  be  an  excellent 
match." 

"Z^  bien  I  nous  verrons.  Apres  tout,  il  n'y  a  pas  di' 
danger — pour  nioi,  du  ?noins  /  " 

And  Florence  watched  him.  The  result  may  best 
be  read  in  her  own  words. 

Florence  Wilmington  to  Caroline  Fuller  ton. 

''  My  dearest  Carry, 

"  I  have  the  prettiest  bit  of  intelligence  in  the  world 
to  send  you.  Prick  up  your  sagacious  ears  to  receive 
it!  I  am  engaged  to  be  married!  Actually  engaged; 
have  interchanged  vows,  and  am  now  busy  over  my 
trousseau. 

"  But  this,  as  a  fact,  is  too  commonplace  to  deserve 
much  attention — though  common  as  the  fact  is,  we 
women  never  lose  our  interest  in  it — but  it  receives  extra 
^clat  from  this  other  fact,  that  I  love  my  husband  elect! 
Yes,  lot'e  him!  '  Very  natural  too!'  will  perhaps  be  your 
reply. — '  Not  if  you  knew  the  man,'  I  retort. — '  Who  is 
he?'  you  ask.  And  as  he  is  the  very  last  person  you 
would  ever  guess,  I  may  as  well  relieve  your  perplexities 
by  naming  him.  Well  then — Sir  Frederick  Hawbucke; 
AVhat  think  you  of  that?  I  read  the  astonishment  in 
your  face;  but  you  could  not  be  more  surprised  at  the 
discovery  than  I  was  at  first. 

"  You  remember  when  we  were  at  school  together, 
how  we  used  to  aspire  after  some  grande  passion.  Our 
ambition  was  to  inspire  an  attachment  something  like 
that   inspired  by  the  favorite  heroines  of  our  favorite 


THE    HAWBUCKES.  229 

novels — a  passion  disinterested  as  it  was  exalted,  fiery 
as  it  was  profound.  How  often  has  that  engrossing 
subject  defrayed  our  conversation! — how  often  has  it 
inflamed  our  innocent  imaginations!  —  how  often  has 
it  filled  us  with  delicious  dreams!  And  how  bitter  was 
my  disappointment,  when  I  first  awoke  from  the  illusion, 
to  find  that  in  real  life  such  passions  were  impossible; 
ihat  men  were  insolent  and  selfish,  brutal  in  their 
thoughts,  though  polished  in  their  manners;  tyrannical, 
suspicious,  and  inconstant !  The  effect  upon  me  was 
very  decided.  Violent  and  impetuous  as  I  am,  I  sud- 
<lenly  changed  from  the  little  ///<?  exaltce  you  knew  me, 
to  the  flirt  you  may  have  heard  of.  I  treated  men  as 
they  deserved. 

''  But  in  the  midst  of  my  flirtations  I  found  at  last  a 
real  heroic  heart;  at  the  lieight  of  my  incredulity  respect- 
ing man's  capability  of  a  great  passion,  I  was  amazed 
to  find  that  I  had  inspired  one  of  those  deep,  silent, 
tenacious,  all-absorbing  passions  which  makes  man  a 
limid  devotee,  rather  than  a  coxcomb  regarding  victory 
:is  certain.  You  may  conceive  how  the  tete  exaltee  was 
intoxicated  with  vanity  at  the  discovery !  I  do  believe 
[  fell  in  love  out  of  pure  gratitude  and  enthusiasm ! 
Though  as  you  know  my  Frederick,  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  he  is  worth  loving  for  himself,  however  sur])rised 
vou  may  be  at  my  being  captivated  with  one  so  opposite. 
But  love  delights  in  antitheses.  1  should  hate  a  man 
as  lively  as  myself. 

''  When  I  think  of  the  lovers  I  have  had  swearing 
they  adored  me, — or  looking  it,  it's  all  the  same — and 
compare  them  with  Frederick,  I  feel  that  it  was  my  in- 
stinct made  me  only  ///>/  with  them,  because  nature  had 
inade  me  for  him.     In  none  of  our  novels,  I  verily  be- 


230  RAN'iHORPE. 

lieve,  did  we  ever  meet  with  sucli  a  profoundly  passion- 
ate nature,  subdued  as  it  is  with  such  magnificent  self- 
control  ;  and  I  quite  tremble  sometimes  when  I  think 
of  the  force  of  his  passion,  and  think  how  he  hid  it 
from  the  eyes  of  every  one,  except  his  aunt!  He  is  the 
\t2.?>X.  demonstrative  creature  I  ever  met;  and  I  am  the 
most  demonstrative  creature  perhaps  ever  born ;  so  that 
the  antithesis  is  perfect.  But  cold  as  he  seems  to  others, 
I  know  that  all  the  warmth  which  others  expend  in  en- 
thusiasm, in  talk,  and  demonstration,  he  cherishes  in 
his  heart.  Conceive  how  proud  I  am  of  him.  and  how 
happy  I  am  and  shall  ever  be ! 

"  Florence  Wilisiington." 

In  due  time  the  marriage  of  Sir  Frederick  Haw- 
bucke  and  Florence  Wilmington  was  solemnized,  and 
the  "  happy  pair  "  set  out  for  the  wedding  tour  througli 
Switzerland. 

Their  honeymoon  was  a  honeymoon;  that  is  descrip- 
tion enough.  They  were  supremely  happy.  They 
were  proud  of  each  other — loved  each  other.  Nothing 
like  a  disagreement  occurred.  Florence,  indeed,  was 
occasionally  made  very  impatient  at  the  imperturbable 
phlegm  with  which  her  husband  visited  all  the  ravishing 
scenes  which  lay  in  their  route.  Neither  mountain  nor 
valley,  neither  glacier  nor  lake,  could  wring  from  him  a 
cry  of  admiration.  He  contented  himself  with  pro- 
nouncing the  Alps  "  imposing,"  and  Lake  Leman 
"  pretty."  He  was  always  willing  to  make  a  fresh  ex- 
cursion ;  but  was  as  willing  to  quit  each  lovely  spot,  as 
he  had  been  to  go  to  it.  He  was  never  seduced  into  a 
touch  of  romance;  never  came  home  fatigued  with  the 
emotions  excited  by  the  scenery.  Nothing  wearied 
him,  nothing  bored  him,  nothing  enchanted  him. 


THi;   HA\vi;rcK.F.«.  231 

For  a  lively,  impressionable  girl  like  Florence,  this 
was,  it  must  be  confessed,  suftlciently  ]>rovoking.  At 
first  she  attributed  it  to  his  undemonstrative  depth  of 
feeling;  she  thought  he  was  too  much  aftected  to  ex- 
press his  emotions.  But  so  flattering  an  interpretation 
could  not  resist  the  daily  contradicUon  of  his  insensi- 
bility. He  was  too  measured  in  his  language  and  in 
his  manner,  for  her  to  suppose  him  struggling  with  un- 
speakable emotions.  He  criticised  too  coldly,  to  be  ad- 
miring heartily. 

She  was  impatient  at  his  insensibility,  and  showed 
her  impatience :  but  finally  making  up  her  mind  that  he 
was  destitute  of  all  poetry,  she  ceased  to  torment  him 
and  herself  about  it.  If  he  could  not  admire  passion- 
ately, he  could  love!  That  was  Florence's  consolation. 
And  when  she  compared  him  with  the  French  and 
Germans~nay,  even  with  the  English  they  met  on  their 
journey — when  she  contemplated  his  manly  beauty,  and 
thought  how  he  worshipped  her,  like  Hercules  spinning 
with  Omphale,  having  laid  his  strength  at  her  feet,  she 
could  not  but  feel  a  mingled  pride  and  gratitude,  A\hich 
amply  compensated  for  any  reflections  on  his  want  of 
])oetry. 

As  for  Sir  Frederick,  he  looked  upon  her  enthusiasm 
as  fresh  ])roof  of  her  superiority  over  him.  He  knew 
that  he  could  not  understand  her;  he  felt  she  was  a 
creature  of  another  order — that  she  did  not  belong 
to  the  same  race  as  himself;  and  in  his  affection 
believed  that  she  belonged  to  a  much  more  elevated 
order. 

This  continued  till  they  entered  Italy.  There  a 
change  took  place.  There  she  was  as  cold,  or  colder, 
than  he  had  been  in  Switzerland.     She  knew  nothing  of 


332  RANTHORPE. 

art,  though  fond  of  poetry.  Painting  and  sculpture  she 
thought  all  very  well  in  the  Exhibition.  There  she  saw- 
portraits  of  her  friends,  there  she  met  a  crowd  of  well- 
dressed  people,  who  went  there,  not  for  the  pictures,  but 
for  the  Exhibition.  Sir  Frederick  had  some  taste,  and 
more  knowledge;  was  fond  of  old  paintings  and  statues; 
was  not  without  a  smattering  of  archaeology;  and  knew 
the  history-  of  the  Italian  Republics  with  tolerable  ac- 
curacy. His  astonishment  may  be  imagined  when 
Florence  assured  him,  that  she  took  no  pleasure  what- 
ever in  the  "dirty  brown  things"  he  called  old  masters, 
and  that  she  thought  Chalon  infinitely  more  agreeable 
as  a  painter  of  women  portraits  than  Titian ! 

In  Rome  it  was  still  worse.  While  he  was  either 
placidly  examining  the  wonders  of  the  Vatican,  and 
feeling  as  much  enthusiasm  as  his  nature  was  capable 
of,  or  enjoying  the  classical  associations  awakened  by 
the  relics  of  ancient  Rome,  she  was  lying  on  the  sofa 
reading  French  novels,  or  paying  a  round  of  morning 
visits,  just  as  if  she  were  in  London. 

He  began  to  suspect  that  his  wife  was  not  the  "su- 
perior" creature  he  had  believed  her.  This  suspicion 
was  slow  in  growing,  and  was  often  banished  from  his 
mind,  but  it  would  force  itself  upon  him.  He  consoled 
himself,  however,  with  the  reflection,  that  her  education 
had  not  fitted  her  to  relish  art  or  antiquities,  but  that 
her  nature  was  brilliant  and  poetical. 

These  were  the  only  clouds  in  the  serene  heaven  of 
their  felicity;  and  they  returned  to  England  as  much  in 
love  with  each  other  as  when  they  left  it.  But  the  ter- 
rible mistake  was  committed  of  secluding  themselves 
from  the  world,  of  shutting  themselves  up  in  the  old 
manor-house  of  an  estate  in  Wales,  where  they  proposed 


THE    HAWBUCKES.  233 

to  live  like  turtle-doves.  This  at  such  a  time  was  fatal. 
For  the  first  week  everything  went  on  smoothly  enough. 
Florence  found  plenty  of  amusement  and  occupation  in 
visiting  all  the  farms,  going  over  the  estate,  and  making 
excursions  to  the  environs.  But  when  the  novelty  wore 
off,  she  began  to  get  tired  of  the  monotony,  and  was 
annoyed  to  see  the  placid  pleasure  her  husband  con- 
tinued to  take  in  every  detail.  Their  evenings  were 
horribly  dull.  The  day  had  furnished  no  subject  of  con- 
versation, tlie  monotony  of  their  lives  furnished  no  food 
for  reflection,  no  points  of  interest;  and  between  them 
there  were  too  few  subjects  of  sympathy  to  supply  the 
place;  their  educations  and  their  dispositions  had  not 
fitted  them  for  mutually  enlivening  the  most  depressing 
of  all  solitudes — that  of  a  country-house.  The  charm 
of  Florence  was  her  liveliness,  but  she  could  not  be 
lively  alone;  she  needed  company,  new  scenes,  or  new 
incidents  to  stimulate  her  animal  spirits.  As  for  her 
husband,  he  was  a  damper  rather  than  a  stimulant. 
His  phlegm,  which  had  rendered  her  impatient  on  their 
wedding  tour,  exasperated  her  in  a  country-house.  In 
travelling  she  could  take  refuge  in  her  own  enjoyment, 
or  in  the  society  of  fellow-travellers,  but  here  she  had  no 
refuge,  and  the  days  were  oppressively  monotonous. 
Had  she  not  been  convinced  of  the  depth  of  his  affec- 
tion, she  never  could  have  borne  with  her  husband  in 
such  a  situation;  but  she  was  too  grateful  to  murmur; 
and  he,  finding  her  get  more  serious,  mistaking  her  ennui 
for  reflectiveness,  actually  had  the  naivete  to  compliment 
her  on  the  change — to  rejoice  that  she  was  becoming  a 
serious  woman! 

The  following  letter  will  convey  her  feelings  at  this 
interpretation. 


234  RAN'rHORPK. 

Florence  Hawhucke  io  Caroline  Fullerton. 
"  My  dear  Cany, 

"  If  you  love  me,  do  persuade  your  luisband  to  bring 
you  here  for  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks.  I  am  dying  of 
ennui;  my  heart  is  ossifying.  I,  who  never  was  alone 
before  in  my  life,  feel  that  I  cannot  support  this  solitude. 
It  may  be  all  very  well  for  Frederick;  he  rides  out, 
visits  the  farms,  discusses  the  state  of  crops,  considers 
improvements,  eats,  drinks,  and  sleeps.  That  suffices 
for  his  quiet  nature;  but  I  perish  here.  Not  a  soul  in 
the  neighborhood,  not  a  human  being  to  laugh  and  talk 
with.  You  will  ask  me  if  Frederick  is  not  enough — 
Alas !  the  truth  must  be  told — he  is  an  inestimable  crea- 
ture, and  that  is  why  I  cannot  estimate  liim;  I  respect 
the  depth  of  his  nature,  but  his  silence,  his  undemon- 
strative, unimaginative,  unimpulsi\e  soul,  makes  him  a 
most  uncompanionable  com])anion.  He  is  clever,  clear- 
sighted, instructed;  but  his  brain  is  unwieldy,  and  his 
pulses  scarcely  beat.  I  would  not  hint  sucli  a  thing  to 
any  body  but  you;  and  I  would  not  have  you  suspect 
me  of  a  complaint ;  but  I  really  feel,  as  I  say,  a  great 
respect  for  him,  but  no  sympathy  with  him.  He  doesn't 
amuse  me,  in  short ;  and  I  have  been  a  spoiled  child, 
all  my  life  accustomed  to  amusement.  Poor  fellow?  if 
he  suspected  this,  it  would  break  his  heart,  I  know;  so 
you  may  be  sure  I  keep  it  carefully  concealed  from  him. 
I  have  often  been  accused  of  being  a  consummate  ac- 
tress; people  don't  know  the  value  of  that  art;  I  do. 
If  I  we7'e  not  an  actress  Frederick  would  be  miserable! 
If  I  could  not  deceive  him  into  the  idea  that  his  society 
is  pleasant  to  me — is  sufficient  for  me — " 

At  this  moment,  she  was  interrupted  by  her  bus- 


THE    HAWRUCKES.  Z^c:, 

band,  who,  opening  the  door,  stood  outside  with  his 
liand  on  the  lock,  and  said — 

"Did  you  order  the  carriage  for  this  after- 
noon ?" 

She  started;  did  not  at  once  reply,  but  shutting  up 
her  writing-case  in  some  agitation,  turned  round  her 
head,  and  then  said — 

"  I  really  forget." 

"Shall  you  want  it  ?"  asked  Sir  Frederick,  now  com- 
ing into  the  room,  and  shutting  the  door. 

"Well — I  scarcely  know.  Yes,  I  may  as  well  take 
a  drive." 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"Oh!  merely  writing  a  letter."  She  colored  as  she 
spoke. 

"  To  whom  ?" 

"  To  Caroline  Fullerton." 

"  Remember  me  to  her." 

"  Certainly." 

Florence  breathed  again.  She  thought  her  husband 
had  now  quitted  the  subject,  which  was  pecuHarly  un- 
pleasant to  her;  and  imagined  he  would  soon  leave  the 
room.  But  he  remained  looking  out  of  window,  to  all 
appearance  as  calm  as  usual.  He  made  no  signs  of 
going  away;  and  yet  there  seemed  no  reason  for  his 
staying.  He  was  perfectly  silent,  motionless.  His 
eyes  were  tixed  upon  the  undulating  lawns  spread  out 
before  him.     He  was  abstracted. 

The  trutli  is,  that  his  wife's  manner — her  agitation 
about  the  letter — had  roused  painful  suspicions  in  his 
breast.  He  was  a  morbidly  jealous  man;  and  he  could 
not  resist  the  inspirations  of  the  demon  which  now  tor- 
mented him.     As  he  stood  there  o:azing  out  of  window, 


236  RANTHORPE. 

he  was  revolving  in  his  own  mind  the  names  of  all  the 
young  men  his  wife  had  seen  recently;  but  he  could 
not  single  out  one  upon  whom  to  fasten  his  suspicions. 
And  yet  wherefore  this  agitation  ?  Could  she  really  be 
writing  to  Mrs.  Fullerton  ?  If  so,  why  shut  up  her 
writing-case  ? — why  color  ? 

Florence  began  to  feel  marvellously  uneasy  at  her 
husband's  silent  presence.  She  sat  drawing  figures  on 
the  blotting-paper,  counting  the  minutes  of  his  stay. 
She  wanted  to  say  something  to  him,  but  could  think 
of  nothing.  The  silence  was  as  a  spell  upon  her,  which 
she  could  not  break. 

Sir  Frederick  at  length  moved  away  from  the  window, 
and  lounged  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  He  took 
up  a  volume  which  was  lying  on  the  table :  it  was  the 
•'  Dreams  of  Youth,"  by  his  old  rival,  Percy  Ranthorpe. 
Florence  was  surprised,  beyond  measure,  to  hear  him 
humming  a  tune,  in  a  low  voice,  occasionally  interrupt- 
ing it  with  that  sharp  breathing  which  is  to  whistling 
what  humming  is  to  singing.  She  had  heard  him  do 
this  but  once  before,  and  that  was  when  he  heard  of  a 
relation  of  his  having  been  accused  of  cheating  at  cards, 
in  one  of  the  London  clubs.  What  could  it  mean  now  ? 
He  was  reading  and  humming. 

"  If  you  have  finished  your  letter,  perhaps  you  will 
stroll  with  me  down  the  shrubbery  ?"  he  said,  in  his 
usual  tone. 

"  Very  well,"  she  answered. 

"  Have  you  then  finished  it  ?" 

"  No ; — but  there  is  no  hurry." 

He  was  silent.     She  rose  to  put  on  her  bonnet. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  he,  ''  give  me  your  letter — 1  will 
finish  it,     I  want  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  her." 


THE    HAWBUCKES.  237 

"  Then  why  not  write  yourself?  I  shan't  allow  you 
to  spoil  my  letters." 

"  Let  me  see  what  you  have  written,  at  any  rate," 
he  said,  advancing  towards  her  escritoire. 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear,"  she  said,  swiftly  interposing, 
"  you  know  we  women  have  secrets,  which  you  have 
no  share  in," 

"  Secrets !" 

"  Yes :  all  sorts  of  little  nothings." 

"  Now  you  pique  my  curiosity.     I  must  see  it." 

"  No,  no,  no ;  don't  be  absurd,  Frederick." 

"  To  oblige  me." 

"  Nonsense." 

"  I  am  serious." 

"  How  can  you  ask  such  a  thing !  Who  ever  heard 
the  like !" 

"  I  have  a  motive." 

"  A  motive !  what  motive  can  you  have  ?" 

*'  That  is  my  affair;  enough  that  I  have  one." 

"  You  are  not  jealous,  I  suppose  ?"  she  said,  scornfully. 

"  Why  not  ?"  he  retorted,  calmly. 

"  This  is  too  ridiculous  !"  She  was  moving  from  the 
room. 

"  Florence,  I  am  not  so  to  be  put  off.  I  wish  to 
see  that  letter.  No  matter  what  my  motive — whether 
stupid  curiosity,  or  stupider  jealousy — enough  that  I 
wish  it.     Will  you  show  it  to  me  ?" 

"  No,  I  will  not,"  said  Florence,  drawing  herself  up 
to  her  full  height,  and  endeavoring  to  crush  him  with 
the  haughtiness  of  her  indignant  look. 

*'  Beware!  beware!  you  are  strengthening  suspicions. 
I  may  be  foolish  to  suspect ;  but  you  are  mad  if  you 
confirm  my  doubts  1" 


238  RANTHORPK. 

"  Is  it  to  me  you  address  this  insult.  Sir  Frederick  ? 
Is  it  your  wife  that  you  presume  to  dishonor  by  sus- 
picion ?" 

"  Show  me  that  letter." 

''  I  will  not !" 

"  You  fear  to  do  so." 

"  Put  what  construction  you  please  upon  my  refusal. 
I  will  not  stoop  to  excuse  myself."  Her  face  was 
flushed  with  anger,  and  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

"  Do  you  not  see  that  your  refusal  ])uts  the  very 
worst  construction  possible  ?" 

"  Let  it  do  so.     I  am  above  suspicion." 

"  Then  you  brave  me  ?"  he  said,  fiercely. 

"  No — I  despise  you !"  And  with  this  insult  she 
passed  into  her  bedroom,  with  the  most  scornful  look 
that  her  outraged  feelings  could  call  up. 

He  was  stung  to  the  quick ;  but  remained  where  he 
stood.  Some  step  was  to  be  taken,  but  he  could  nbt 
decide  which.  His  own  conjugal  felicity  seemed  staked 
upon  the  present  quarrel.  It  was  not  simply  a  disagree- 
ment between  man  and  A\'ife ;  it  was  a  struggle  for 
mastery,  at  the  very  least ;  and  it  was  probably  the  de- 
tection of  some  clandestine  correspondence. 

Had  he  chosen,  he  could  at  once  have  gone  to  her 
Avriting-case  and  read  the  letter ;  but  he  determined  she 
should  give  it  to  him. 

Florence  had  thrown  herself  upon  a  sofa  and  had 
given  vent  to  a  flood  of  tears.  She  was  angry  and 
wretched.  To  be  suspected  by  him — and  on  such  evi- 
dence !  So  newly  married,  and  so  bitterly  initiated  into 
the  petty  world  of  bickerings  and  jealousy  !  And  where 
was  his  deep  and  tender  love  ?  where  was  his  quiet 
idolatry?  was   tliat  also  a  mockery?  was  he  as  cold  as 


THE    HAWBUCKES.  239 

he  seemed  ?  She  threw  herself  back  upon  the  sofa  in 
agony  at  the  thought. 

Half-an-hour  afterwards  she  rose  and  walked  to  the 
door  of  her  boudoir.  Looking  in,  she  saw  her  husband 
in  the  same  position  as  that  in  which  she  had  left  him ; 
his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground,  and  he  was  whistling 
with  a  sort  of  ghastly  resolution.  She  walked  up  to 
him,  saying  gently : 

"  Frederick,  we  have  been  very  childish.  I  am 
sorry  for  what  I  said,  but  you  provoked  me  beyond  my 
power  of  restraint."  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him, 
*'  You  forgive  me,  don't  you  ?" 

"  If  you  show  me  the  letter." 

"  What !  still  at  your  suspicions  ?" 

"  Until  they  are  removed." 

She  turned  haughtily  from  him ;  and  taking  her 
letter  from  the  case  presented  it  to  him,  saying : 

"  Since  you  persist,  read.  If  its  contents  displease 
you,  it  is  your  own  fault.  But  having  read  it,  burn  it ; 
//la^  can  never  go.  When  next  I  write  about  you,  it  will 
1)e  in  another  style."     And  she  left  the  room. 

He  took  the  letter  and  read  it  with  tolerable  sang 
froiiL  From  her  manner  he  felt  convinced  that  it  was 
not  so  important  as  he  had  dreaded ;  and  yet  it  con- 
tained something  likely  to  displease  him,  as  she  ac- 
knowledged. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  render  in  words  the  state  of 
liis  feelings  as  he  laid  it  down.  Had  he  really  loved 
Florence  with  that  passionate  depth  she  believed  him 
to  love  her  with,  this  letter  would  have  driven  him  wild. 
But  she  was  hopelessly  mistaken  in  her  estimate  of  his 
character;  she  had  exaggerated  it  beyond  all  bounds. 
Because,  in  his  shyness  and  self-control,  he  had  con- 


240  RANTHORPE. 

cealed  his  affection  for  her  from  every  eye,  she  imagined 
that  his  affection  was  unbounded ;  because  she  had  dis- 
covered some  warmth  under  the  snow,  she  jumped  to 
the  conclusion  tliat  it  must  be  a  volcano.  Sir  Frederick 
certainly  loved  his  wife ;  but  it  was  a  very  measured, 
reasonable  passion  —  it  was  thoroughly  "respectable." 
He  would  have  made  her  a  good  husband :  kind,  con- 
siderate, respectful.  '  But  the  idea  of  this  quiet,  gentle- 
manly, phlegmatic  Englishman  feeling  any  of  the  de- 
lirium of  passion,  could  only  have  entered  the  head  of 
the  capricious,  wilful,  and  exaggerated  Florence,  who, 
because  she  knew  that  her  own  nature  was  demonstra- 
tive, but  not  deep,  was  led  to  believe  that  his  nature 
wastleep,  but  not  demonstrative! 

It  is  mostly  pride  that  feels  jealousy,  seldom  love. 
A  lover  may  be  jealous,  but  it  is  almost  always  his  pride 
that  suffers.  When  a  husband  ceases  to  love  his  wife, 
"he  does  not  cease  to  feel  the  pangs  occasioned  by  the 
suspicion  Of  her  preference  for  another;  which  is  enough 
to  prove  my  position. 

When  I  say,  therefore,  that  Sir  PYederick  suffered 
the  tortures  of  jealousy,  I  do  not  imply  that  his  love  for 
Florence  was  more  vehement  than  before  stated,  but 
simply  that  his  sensitive  pride  suffered  from  2i  prospective 
jealousy.  It  was  evident  that  she  did  not  love  him. 
Her  love  was  acting.  She  confessed  it.  He  wearied 
her;  she  wanted  somiC  one  to  amuse  her.  That  one 
would  be  found — that  one  would  be  preferred  !  He  felt 
that,  although  his  rival  had  not  yet  a  ?iamc — yet  the 
place  in  Florence's  heart  was  ready  for  him  ! 

"  So !"  he  muttered,  **  I  am  no  longer  a  com- 
panion— I  am  a  tyrant  to  be  flattered  with  simulated 
caresses.     I'he  system  of  deceit  has  commenced.     She 


THE    HAWBUCKES.  241 

avows  it!     Avows    to   another  that    she   deceives   her 
husband !" 

His  face  was  deadly  pale,  and  his  lips  were  violently 
compressed,  as  this  last  reflection  presented  itself.  Yes, 
there  was  the  pang — that  a7iother  should  know  what 
passed  in  his  family — that  another  should  know  his  wife 
loved  him  not ! 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  He  could  think  of  nothing. 
He  could  only  await  the  enemy's  approach,  and  then 
defend  himself.  His  life,  he  foresaw,  would  be  a  com- 
bat ;  but  he  savagely  exulted  in  the  idea,  that  at  any 
rate  he  should  not  be  a  dupe. 

At  first  he  thought  of  returning  at  once  to  town, 
and  allowing  his  wife  to  resume  her  accustomed  gaieties- 
There  she  would  be  amused ;  there,  perhaps,  the  germs 
of  evil  would  have  no  leisure  to  develop  themselves;  she 
would  not  be  tired  of  him,  and  would  not  cease  to  love  him. 

This,  indeed,  was  the  wisest  course  he  could  have 
pursued — the  only  course.  But  his  pride  intervened — as 
k  always  does — to  inflict  its  own  tortures,  rather  than 
allow  another  to  ward  them  ofl".  If  he  was  to  owe  her 
affection  to  such  means,  he  would  rather  be  without  it. 
Better  at  once,  he  thought,  to  know  the  extent  of  his 
danger,  that  he  might  prepare  for  it.  Thus  resolved,  he 
waded  deeper  into  the  torrent,  that  he  might  know  its 
depth,  when  there  was  no  necessity  for  him  even  to  wet 
his  ankles ! 

Florence  was  a  good  deal  puzzled  at  his  manner, 
when  she  met  him,  after  he  had  seen  her  letter:  he 
merely  said,  in  his  calmest  tone : 

"  My  dear,  your  complaints  of  the  country  are  na- 
tural enough ;  but  would  it  not  have  been  better  to 
make  them  to  me  than  to  a  third  party  ?" 

16 


242  RANTHORPE. 

She  had  expected  a  burst  of  anger ;  this  mildness 
disarmed :  and  throwing  her  arms  round  his  neck,  she 
weepingly  begged  to  be  forgiven. 

The  wound  seemed  healing;  for  a  few  days  they 
were  together  as  heretofore — more  affectionate,  perhaps, 
if  any  thing.  This  did  not  last  long;  quarrels  succeeded 
quarrels.  She  was  more  and  more  e?umyee ;  he  v/as 
silent,  sulky. 

A  letter  from  Florence  to  her  mother  will,  however, 
save  me  a  long  description  : 

"  My  dear  Mother, — We  return  to  town  on  the 
17th.  I  quite  pine  for  that  day.  I  am  very  unhappy 
here;  never  thought  I  could  be  so  wretched.  But  my 
dear  mother  will  understand  what  I  must  endure,  when 
she  learns  that  I  have  been  altogether  mistaken  in  the 
character  of  my  husband.  My  last  illusion  respecting 
him  is  gone.  I  thought,  at  least,  that  he  adored  me, 
but  find  his  love  was  as  commonplace  and  cold  as  his 
other  feelings. 

*'  Now  we  are  always  quarrelling.  I  don't  know 
who  begins,  or  whose  fault  it  is;  but  we  quarrel  and 
quarrel,  for  all  the  world  like  man  and  wife.  Then  he 
is  always  so  exasperatingly  cool !  One  knows  not  how 
to  get  the  better  of  him.  The  other  day  I  tried  hysterics, 
and  all  he  did  was  to  take  up  the  newspaper  and  read 
it  till  I  came  to !  Conceive,  my  dear  mother,  what  it 
must  be  to  have  a  husband  whom  hysterics  cannot 
move ! 

"But  I  shall  never  finish,  if  I  get  on  the  chapter  of 
his  vices.  They  are  all  comprised  in  one  phrase — he  is 
a  domestic  tyrant! 

"When  we  are  in  town,  I  sha'n't  care.     There  one 


JEALOUSY.  24.3 

can  amuse  one*s  self;  here  we  are  thrown  upon  each 
other  for  society — c'est  rejouissant !  He  will  never  catch 
me  again  alone  with  him  in  a  country-house !" 


CHAPTER     II. 

JEALOUSY. 

En  parlant  ainsi,  je  vis  son  visage  couvert  tout-^-coup  de  pleurs: 
je  m'arretai,  je  revins  sur  mes  pas.  je  desavouai,  j'expliquai.  Nous 
nous  embrassames :  mais  un  premier  coup  etait  porte  ,  une  premiere 
barriere  dtait  franchie.  Nous  avions  prononcd  tous  deux  des  mots 
irrdparables ;  nous  pouvions  nous  taire,  mais  non  les  oublier. 

II  y  a  des  choses  qu'on  est  longtemps  sans  se  dire,  mais  quand 
une  fois  elles  sont  dites,  on  ne  cesse  jamais  de  les  repdter. 

Benj.  Constant  :  AdolpJu. 

Indeed  such  love  is  like  a  smoky  fire 

In  a  cold  morning ;  though  the  fire  be  cheerful, 

Yet  is  the  smoke  so  sour  and  cumbersome, 

'Twere  better  lose  the  fire  than  find  the  smoke. 

Such  an  attendant  then  as  smoke  to  fire 

Is  jealousy  to  love  ;  better  want  both 

Than  have  both. 

Chapman  :  All  Fools. 

The  Hawbuckes  returned  to  town.  Although  Flor- 
ence had  completely  given  up  her  illusion  respecting 
her  husband's  love,  and  with  that  illusion  had,  of  course, 
vanished  all  the  romance  of  her  attachment  to  him,  she 
continued  to  show  him  the  proper  respect,  and  kept  up 
at  least  the  appearances  of  affection.  No  one  imagined 
but  what  they  were  the  most  enviable  couple  in 
England.  Lady  Hawbucke's  gaiety  returned  after  a 
very  short  enjoyment  of  society,  Her  house  was 
splendid,  her  entertainments  sumptuous.  She  passed 
as  thoughtless  and  giddy  a  life  of  it  as  if  she  had  never 
married,  or  had  never  been  deceived. 

t6  * 


244  KANJHOKPE. 

Sir  Frederick  saw  that  she  was  happier  in  the  society 
of  many  men  than  in  his;  but  even  his  jealousy  could 
find  no  excuse  in  her  conduct  with  respect  to  any  one 
man.  She  was  indeed  the  last  woman  in  the  world  to 
be  afraid  of,  at  that  period.  Her  belief  in  man's  affec- 
tion was  destroyed.  She  had  renounced  the  idea  of 
love,  and  she  had  no  inclination  to  bring  disrespect  upon 
herself  by  flirting.  No  one  young  man  was,  therefore, 
sedulous  enough  in  his  attentions  to  justify  Sir  Fred- 
erick's jealousy.  But  this  was  no  alleviation  of  his  con- 
dition. He  would  rather  have  had  one  rival  than  a 
host  of  rivals.  He  knew  his  wife  was  indifferent  to 
him,  that  she  preferred  the  first  comer's  society  to  his, 
and  this  to  so  proud  a  man  was  terribly  galling.  He 
endured  it  all,  however,  without  a  complaint;  without 
once  indicating,  by  word  or  gesture,  the  jealousy  which 
consumed  him. 

Just  towards  the  close  of  the  season  a  young  French- 
man, M.  de  la  Riviere,  excited  Sir  Frederick's  suspicions 
by  the  assiduity  of  his  visits.  In  him  he  anticipated  a 
successful  rival.  M.  de  la  Riviere,  though  not  hand- 
some, was  an  accomplished  dandy,  and  possessed  that 
liveliness  of  animal  spirits  which  so  often  passes  for  wit. 
and  is,  indeed,  superior  to  it  in  attraction.  He  was  just 
the  man  to  captivate  Florence's  attention;  the  last  man 
upon  earth  to  c^aptivate  her  affections,  for  he  resembled 
her  too  much.  Sir  Frederick  never  suspected  this  dis- 
tinction; he  saw  that  his  own  sober  nature  was  not 
fitted  to  charm  Florence,  and  very  easily  persuaded 
himself  that  M.  de  la  Riviere,  from  his  liveHness  and 
frivohty,  must  have  every  advantage  over  him. 

He  endeavored,  by  various  pretexts,  to  warn  Flor- 
ence; but  as  he  dreaded  her  suspecting  his  real  m.otive, 


KA  LOUSY. 


245 


he  was  obliged  to  submit  to  a  defeat  in  all  their  conver- 
sations on  the  subject;  he  could  bring  forward  no  good, 
ostensible  reason. 

"In  a  word,  I  do  not  like  him!"  he  impatiently  ex- 
claimed one  day  at  the  close  of  a  discussion. 

"  Tantpis /  I  do;  and  as  he  never  favors  you  with 
his  company  your  good  opinion  is  superfluous.  Est-ce- 
logique?'''  He  was  forced  to  hold  his  tongue.  Her  last 
speech  seemed  to  him  like  an  open  avowal  of  her  en- 
couragement of  De  la  Riviere's  attentions. 

They  went  to  Baden-Baden — M.  de  la  Riviere  was 
only  a  day  or  two  behind  them.  He  became  more  and 
more  attentive;  but  Sir  Frederick's  utmost  vigilance 
could  not  detect  the  slightest  appearance  of  any  under- 
standing tetween  him  and  Florence.  He  lived  in  a 
perpetual  fever  of  expectation.  It  was  the  occupation 
of  his  life  to  guard  his  honor  from  the  stain  he  deemed 
would  inevitably  be  cast  upon  it,  were  he  not  vigilant. 
Her  love  was  gone,  he  knew ;  his  own  had  given  place 
to  contempt.  But  in  the  silent  defence  of  his  honor — in 
the  gradual  development  of  this  internal  drama,  he  felt 
all  the  keen  delight  which  ever  accompanies  strong  pas- 
sions. In  this  state  of  mind  every  trifle  had  terrible  sig- 
nificance, every  word  was  commented  on  in  a  hundred 
different  ways,  every  look  was  interpreted.  He  stood  in 
presence  of  a  deadly  enemy,  waiting  till  he  should  safely 
strike  the  first  blow,  before  one  could  be  aimed  at  him. 

They  went  to  Paris — M.  de  la  Riviere  followed. 
One  evening,  at  a  ball,  Florence  was  dancing  with  him, 
quite  unsuspicious  of  the  watchful  gaze  of  her  husband, 
who  was  leaning  against  the  door  of  one  of  the  inner 
salons.  She  was  in  high  spirits.  As  the  dance  con- 
cluded, Sir  Frederick,  who  was  watching  her  narrowly, 


246  RANTHORPE. 

saw  her  give  a  slight  start,  imperceptible  to  any  but  a 
jealous  eye,  and  saw  the  color  mount  to  her  cheek.  His 
heart  beat  wildly,  but  he  preserved  the  calm  nonchalance 
of  his  position,  riveting  his  eyes  on  his  wife.  De  la 
Riviere  bowed  and  withdrew.  Sir  P'rederick  saw  him 
glide  from  the  room,  to  which  he  did  not  return.  Mean- 
while, Florence  was  playing  with  her  bouquet,  and  dex- 
terously contrived  to  slip  into  her  bosom  the  tiniest  note 
conceivable;  a  manoeuvre  that  did  not  escape  the  vigilant 
scrutiny  of  her  husband. 

It  was  observable  that  Florence  lost  her  gaiety  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening.  During  their  ride  home,  she  never 
opened  her  lips,  though  in  general  she  was  voluble 
enough  in  her  quizzing  of  the  company.  Thrown  back 
into  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  she  seemed  absorbed  in  her 
thoughts.  The  heart  of  Sir  Frederick  throbbed  fiercely, 
and  a  giim  smile  played  on  his  hps;  but  he  also  was 
silent.  The  time  for  action  was  come!  He  only  waited 
to  see  if  Florence  would  mention  anything  about  the 
letter,  which  he  thought,  if  she  were  innocent,  she  as- 
suredly would.  Her  silence  was  to  him  convincing 
proof 

Was  then  Florence  really  in  love?  No.  Yet  she 
received  a  billet  from  a  young  man,  which  she  knew 
must  be  a  declaration,  and  she  had  neither  virtuously 
rejected  it,  nor  communicated  its  contents  to  her  hus- 
band. The  reasons  are  simple.  Her  morality  was 
somewhat  lax — her  love  of  anything  romantic  very  great 
— ^her  abhorrence  of  "scenes"  was  profound — and  she 
dreaded  her  husband.  Without  feeling  the  least  affecdon 
for  De  la  Riviere,  she  was  flattered  at  the  little  bit  of 
romance — she  was  pleased  with  his  audacity — and  had 
she  been  offended  at  it,  she  was  too  well  bred  to  have 


JEALOUSY.  247 

made  a  "scene."  Her  intention  was  to  answer  the  letter 
by  polished  coldness  in  her  manner,  which  should  suf- 
ficiently express  her  sense  of  his  forgetfulness  of  the  re- 
spect due  to  her. 

The  next  afternoon,  Sir  Frederick  astonished  De  la 
Riviere  beyond  expression  by  asking  to  be  allowed  to 
join  the  dinner  which  he  was  to  give  that  day  at  the 
Caf^ de  Paris  to  some  actresses  and  their  "protectors" 
— nn  diner  de  jetines  gens^  in  fact. 

"With  the  gi-eatest  pleasure,  my  dear  fellow,"  replied 
De  la  Riviere,  overjoyed.  "  I  should  have  asked  you 
before,  but  I  thought  that  as  an  Englishm.an — un  ho?nme 
a  principes! — you  would  scout  the  idea  of  such  very 
decolletee  society  as  ours." 

"  I  shall  be  but  a  poor  guest,"  replied  Sir  Frederick, 
calmly,  "  but  I  want  to  see  this  aspect  of  Paris  life.  We 
have  nothing  in  England  like  it.  Besides,  I  have  heard 
such  praises  of  your  Florine.'' 

"  I  feel  flattered.  But  you  must  not  expect  great 
things.  She  is  the  prettiest  actress  in  Paris — that  is  why 
she  is  my  chere  a??iie ;  but  slie  will  not  stand  comparison 
with  your  charming  Engh'shwomen." 

De  la  Riviere  was  highly  pleased  with  the  prospect 
of  making  Sir  Frederick  a  roue'.  It  would  be  such  a 
weapon  in  his  hands.  What  would  Florence  say 
when  she  heard  of  her  husband  dining  with  actresses! 
He  chuckled  prodigiously  at  the  thought. 

Litde  did  he  know  the  fierce,  implacable,  irresistible 
antagonist  he  fancied  he  was  leading  by  the  nose!  That 
calm,  polished  Englishman,  whose  name  he  expected  to 
dishonor  was  accompanying  him  to  a  battle-field,  not  to 
an  orgie.  The  dinner  was  but  an  excuse.  Sir  Frederick 
was  too  self-possessed  to  think  of  quarrelling  with   De 


248  RANTHORPK, 

la  Riviere  on  his  wife's  account.  That  would  have  been 
publishing  to  the  world  the  very  intelligence  he  meant  to 
bury  in  De  la  Riviere's  death.  And  he  was  too  cool  to 
make  such  a  mistake. 

'  Thus,  while  the  lively  Frenchman  thought  Sir  Fred- 
erick was  walking  blindfold  to  his  ruin,  he  himself 
thoughtlessly  walked  into  the  trap  laid  for  him  by  his 
supposed  dupe. 

The  dinner  was  sumptuous,  and  boisterous.  Four 
of  the  most  piquant  actresses  of  Paris,  four  of  the 
charming  young  men,  whose  ambition  is  to  revive  the 
dissolute  orgies  of  la  Regence^  were  the  guests.  Sir 
Frederick  sat  next  to  Florine,  to  whom  he  paid  marked 
attention.  He — the  shyest,  proudest  man  in  London, 
paid  chivalrous  attention  to  an  actress  at  the  Varietes ! 
Such  is  the  force  of  passion. 

Florine  was  prodigiously  flattered.  She  was  more- 
over piqued  into  being  fascinating,  by  the  insolent  re- 
mark of  De  la  Riviere.  When  first  Sir  Frederick  en- 
tered the  room,  she  was  greatly  struck  with  his  beauty. 

"  Sais  tu,  mon  enfant,"  she  whispered  to  De  la 
Riviere,  "que  ton  milord  est  fort  bel  homme." 

"  Le  fait  est  qu'il  n'est  pas  mal,"  replied  De  la 
Riviere  carelessly. 

"  Comme  tu  dis  9a !  Tu  n'as  pas  peur.  toi  ?" 

"Moi?  Bah!" 

"  Mais  je  serais  tr^s  capable  de  m'amouracher  dc 
lui!" 

"  Possible  !" 

*'  Apres  ?" 

"  Tu  y  seras  pour  tes  frais  !" 

"  On  dirait  que  je  suis  laide  ^  faire  peur." 

"  Non ;  on  dirait  tout  simplement  qu'il  est  Anglais." 


JEALOUSY  349 

The  little  Frenchwoman's  vanity  was  roused.  She  de- 
termined on  the  conquest  of  this  supposed  impregnable 
fortress — an  Enghshman's  heart.  She  exerted  all  her 
coquetries.  To  the  increasing  surprise  of  De  la  Riviere, 
Sir  Frederick  became  more  and  more  gallnnt — fixed  his 
eyes  upon  Florine  in  an  ardent  manner — paid  Jier  ex- 
travagant compliments,  which,  though  they  wanted  the 
fi?iesse  of  the  Frenchman's,  compensated  for  that  defic- 
iency by  the  ardor  with  which  they  were  uttered.  De  la 
Riviere  became  jealous. 

The  champagne  flowed — the  guests  became  excited 
— the  fumes  of  the  wine,  and  the  intoxication  of  talk 
had  begun  to  operate  on  all  of  them,  except  Sir 
Frederick,  who,  though  he  drank  bottle  after  bottle, 
seemed  quite  above  the  inflence  of  wine.  The  only  ef- 
fect was  that  of  greater  clearness  in  his  ideas.  He  alone 
was  unabsorbed  in  the  merriment  around  liim.  He  sat 
there  drinking  and  making  love,  but  with  his  ears  open 
to  every  remark,  his  eyes  catching  every  change  of  his 
enemy's  countenance ;  calm  amidst  the  unrestrained 
license  of  this  orgie,  steadily  pursuing  one  object. 

Florine  was  so  excited  by  the  wine  and  b}'  her  suc- 
cess with  Sir  Frederick,  that  she  forgot  the  presence  of 
De  la  Riviere  entirely,  and  almost  turning  her  back  to 
him,  entered  into  a  long  and  sentimental  dialogue  in  an 
undertone  with  Sir  Frederick.  De  la  Riviere  saw  that 
he  was  placed  in  a  ridiculous  light,  and  catching  an 
interchange  of  glances  between  two  of  his  friends, 
which  exasperated  him  to  the  utmost,  he  resolved  to  put 
an  end  to  Florine's  flirtation.  This  was  not  easy.  He 
had  swallowed  several  bumpers,  which  completed  his 
intoxication,  before  he  could  hit  upon  a  proper  plan.  At 
last,  with  an  uneasy  attempt  at  banter: 


250  KANTHORPE, 

"  Take  care,  take  care,  Sir  Frederick.  You  are  a 
novice  as  yet,  and  will  lose  your  heart  before  you  know 
it." 

"No  great  loss,"  replied  Sir  Frederick,  taking 
Florine's  hand,  and  pressing  it  tenderly,  "  and  I  should 
be  content  to  lose  it  here." 

"  Bravo !  bravo  !"  retorted  De  la  Riviere,  ironically, 
"  Lovelace  himself  could  not  have  said  a  better  thing. 
But  you  forget, — ha,  ha,  ha ! — that  you  may  turn  poor 
Florine's  head.     She  has  a  passion  for  Englishmen." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  calmly  ansv/ered  Sir  Frederick,  seeing 
the  stonn  lowering. 

'•You  know  I  shall  be  forced  to  be  jealous, — ha,  ha, 
ha!" 

"  Perliaps  so.  I  dare  say  you  would  not  enjoy  los- 
ing so  incomparable  a  chere  ajuie''' 

"Oh!  oh!  you  think  then  that  I  should  lose  her?" 
retorted  De  la  Riviere,  with  insolent  irony,  his  eyes  flash- 
ing as  he  spoke. 

The  women  trembled.  The  men  held  their  breath. 
"  When  France  presumes  to  cope  with  England,"  re- 
plied Sir  Frederick,  with  unutterable  scorn,  "  she  must 
lose." 

This  sarcasm  was  doubly  insulting:  as  a  Frenchman 
and  a  lover,  it  was  felt  by  De  la  Riviere,  who  started  to 
his  feet.  The  guests  all  did  the  same,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Sir  Frederick,  who  sat  pouring  out  a  glass  of  wine 
wnth  the  most  insolent  coolness.  All  eyes  were  fixed 
alternately  upon  the  two  antagonists,  in  consternation  at 
the  issue  of  the  dispute.  De  la  Riviere  raised  his  wine- 
glass in  the  air,  and  livid  with  rage,  said  slowly : 

"England  is  a  nation  of  shopkeepers  and  clowns, 
we  all  know.     The  mission  of  France  is  to  instruct  the 


JKALOUbY.  251 

world.  Whenever  she  meets  with  a  mal-appns^  she 
gives  him  a  lesson  in  savoir-vivre .  She  does  so  now!  " 
and  he  dashed  the  contents  of  the  wine-glass  in  Sir 
Frederick's  face. 

Sir  Frederick  had  expected  this — desired  it ;  he  made 
no  effort,  therefore,  to  avoid  it;  but  quietly  knocking 
De  la  Riviere  down,  as  he  would  have  felled  an  ox,  he 
turned  to  the  guests,  asked  which  of  them  was  to  be  De 
la  Riviere's  second,  and  walked  calmly  out  of  the 
room. 

At  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  they  met.  Sir  Frederick 
was  no  longer  the  phlegmatic  being  his  friends  had  known 
him.  A  triumph  sparkled  in  his  eyes,  which  explained 
the  elastic  lightness  of  his  step.  He  came  to  the  ren- 
dezvous more  like  a  bridegroom  going  to  the  altar.  He 
was,  in  truth,  supremely,  savagely  happy ;  he  came  to 
kill  his  rival ! 

De  la  Riviere  fired.  Sir  Frederick  staggered.  He 
was  hit ;  but  soon  recovering  his  position,  levelled  his 
pistol,  and  taking  deliberate  aim,  shot  his  antagonist 
through  the  head.  De  la  Riviere  fell.  Sir  Frederick 
walked  calmly  up  to  him;  saw  that  he  had  only  a  few 
moments  to  live ;  and  as  neither  the  seconds  nor  the 
surgeon  understood  English,  he  addressed  these  words 
to  the  dying  man  in  the  politest  tone  imaginable  : 

"That  is  the  answer  my  wife  sends  to  your  letter." 

The  dying  man  glared  fiercely  at  him — attempted 
to  speak— 2l)ut  his  lips  only  moved  feebly,  and  he  ex- 
pired. 

Sir  Frederick's  strength  was  now  spent,  and  he 
fainted  from  loss  of  blood.  He  was  borne  home  in- 
sensible. 

His  wound   was   not   dangerous.     Florence,  really 


2  5 -J  PANTHORPE. 

afflicted,  was  prodigal  in  her  attentions  to  her  wounded 
husband.  She  beUeved,  as  every  one  else  believed, 
that  the  cause  of  the  quarrel  had  been  De  la  Riviere's 
jealousy ;  but  as  she  had  long  since  ceased  to  think 
much  of  her  husband's  affection  for  her,  and  as  she  was 
not  herself  of  a  jealous  disposition,  it  affected  her  very 
httle  that  he  should  have  been  fascinated  by  an  actress. 
Her  attentions  to  him  were  however  horribly  misinter- 
preted by  her  husband :  he  imagined  that  she  had 
divined  the  real  cause  of  the  duel,  and  that  remorse 
was  the  source  of  her  tears — hypocrisy  the  source  of 
her  attentions. 

One  day,  as  she  sat  alone  with  him,  and  he  reclined 
upon  a  couch,  having  nearly  recovered  from  his  wound, 
she  laid  down  the  paper  she  was  reading,  and  said, 
laughingly : 

"  So  your  Florine  is  not  inconsolable,  I  see.  The 
Charivari  informs  us  that  she  has  left  France  for 
Russia,  in  company  with  Count  O — f." 

"  My  Florine !"  he  answered,  scornfully. 

"  Yes,  yours.  Don't  be  uneasy,  I'm  not  at  all 
jealous,  and  have  known  the  story  a  long  while." 

He  fixed  a  penetrating  glance  upon  her.  and  said : 

"Why  must  you  be  such  a  hypocrite,  even  when 
you  must  know  that  it  is  useless  ?" 

"  Sir  Frederick !"  she  exclaimed,  haughtily. 

"  Let  us  understand  each  other.  You  knoiv  that 
Florine  was  a  mere  pretext." 

"  A  pretext !  and  for  what,  pray  ?" 

"  Our  duel." 

"  Pray  be  explicit;  I  hate  innuendoes." 

'•  I  will,  since  you  force  me.  You  kept  up  a  corres-- 
pondence  with  De  la  Riviere." 


JEALOUSY.  253 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  Then  suddenly  checking 
herself,  she  said  scornfully : 

"  You  are  misinformed.  I  received,  indeed,  one 
letter  from  that  unfortunate  young  man." 

"  And  I  took  upon  myself  to  answer  it,"  retorted  he, 
grimly  smiling. 

The  whole  truth  was  revealed  to  her  as  in  a  flash. 
For  some  moments  she  stood  there  speechless,  be- 
wildered. He  watched  her  in  silent  scorn :  he  believed 
her  to  be  acting.  With  inconceivable  dignity,  she 
turned  from  him,  and  swept  out  of  the  room. 

From  this  time  all  disguise  was  impossible.  They 
mutually  read  each  other's  hearts.  They  hated  each 
other,  and  they  knew  it. 

Florence  would  have  forgiven  any  jealousy  from  a 
lover;  but  her  husband  she  knew  loved  her  not,  and 
his  suspicions  were  therefore  simply  debasing.  Con- 
scious not  only  of  her  own  integrity,  but  of  the  care  she 
had  taken  not  to  bring  the  slightest  slur  upon  his  name, 
even  by  flirtation,  she  was  the  more  insulted  at  his 
groundless  jealousy.  On  the  other  hand,  the  systematic 
manner  in  which  he  had  avenged  an  imaginary  wrong, 
seemed  to  her  so  diabolical,  that  his  presence  became 
odious. 

She  proposed  a  separation.    He  refused  peremptorily. 

"  I  will  have  no  scandal,"  he  said. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  she  replied,  "  if  you  prefer  the 
scandal  of  seeing  me  surrounded  by  lovers." 

"  That  I  shall  not  see.  Every  man  who  approaches 
you  in  that  character  meets  the  fate  of  De  la  Riviere.". 

This  was  said  so  coolly,  yet  with  such  determination, 
that  a  shiver  ran  over  her. 

"I  give  vou  due  warning,"  he  added.     "If  you  flirt, 


254  RANTHORPE. 

I  shoot  your  cavalier;  if  you  compromise  ray  name,  I 
shoot  you  1" 

She  bowed  her  head,  and  wept.  There  was  some- 
thing in  tlie  tone  of  his  voice  which  gave  terrible  assur- 
ance to  his  threat.  She  felt  that  she  was  in  the  power 
of  a  man  as  cool  as  he  was  implacable.  The  bloom  of 
her  life  was  gone ;  she  felt  that  a  miserable  fate  awaited 
her,  and  in  conscious  impotence  she  wept. 

It  was  then  that  the  pangs  she  had  read  in  Ran- 
thorpe's  face — as  he  stood  over  the  prostrate  Isola,  and 
passionately  declared  his  love — arose  before  her  in 
mournful  reproach.  She  had  tortured  him  without  re- 
morse ;  she  had  shaken  oiT  the  recollection  of  his  agony, 
as  an  uneasy  thought  is  shaken  off;  she  had  smiled  at  his 
presumption,  and  thought  no  more  of  him.  But  now,  in 
the  depths  of  her  own  affliction,  his  anguished  face  was 
before  her  eyes,  and  she  thought  how  much  happier  she 
should  have  been  as  his  wife,  adventurer  as  he  was,  than 
as  the  wife  of  the  jealous  and  implacable  Sir  Frederick. 
He  would  have  loved  her!  There  was  deep  sadness  in 
the  reflection,  and  it  seemed  to  her  a  punishment  for 
previous  recklessness. 

The  Hawbuckes  returned  to  London.  Every  one 
observed  the  change  in  Florence;  her  spirits  were  invari- 
ably either  sorely  depressed  or  extravagantly  elated.  Ill 
health  was  her  excuse,  and  she  looked  ill  enough  to 
make  it  plausible.  Sir  Frederick  was  as  calm,  handsome, 
and  dull  as  ever. 

In  this  state  we  must  leave  the  "  happy  pair,"  to 
occupy  ourselves  about  the  other,  and  more  interesting 
persons  of  this  history. 


THE     SURGEON.  255 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    SURGEON. 

11  vivait  jadis  k  Florence  un  mdclecin 
Savant  hableur,  dit  on,  et  cdlebre  assassin. 

BOILEAU. 

Thou  knowest  that  in  the  state  of  innocency,  Adam  fell,  and  what 
should  poor  Jack  Falstaflf  do  in  the  days  of  villainy?  ....  If  to  love 
sack  and  sugar  be  a  fault,  God  help  the  wicked. 

Shakspeare. 

Harry  Cavendish,  having  passed  the  College  of 
Surgeons,  had  taken  a  house  in  Edwardes  Square,  Ken- 
sington, shaved  off  his  moustaches,  renounced  his  former 
pursuits,  and  seemed  fast  setthng  into  a  respectable 
member  of  society.  People  still  thought  hiin  "too 
slang,"  but  acknowledged  the  improvement.  It  was  the 
turning-point  in  his  life.  Pie  had  "sown  his  wild  oats;" 
and  what  he  might  hereafter  become,  depended  on  the 
goodness  of  his  disposition,  and  the  circumstances  which 
surrounded  him. 

Too  little  heed  is  taken  of  this  critical  period  in  a 
young  man's  life.  It  is  a  common  remark,  that  the 
wildest  youths  turn  out  the  best  men.  Dissipation, 
though  an  evil,  is  an  evil  best  got  through  in  youth.  If 
there  are  wild  oats  to  sow,  let  them  be  sown  early ;  for 
bad  habits  later  in  life  became  fixed  habits,  and  the  rake 
at  thirty  is  irreclaimable. 

Parents  are  needlessly  alarmed  at  the  wildness  of 
their  sons.  Look  at  the  young  Cantabs  and  Oxonians, 
who,  after  getting  deeply  into  debt,  learning  more  slang 
than  Greek,  becoming  first-rate  "dragsmen,"  or  incom- 


256  RANTHOKPE. 

parable  scullers,  instead  of  senior  wranglers,  are  pro- 
nounced by  parents  worthless  scamps,  for  whom  no  hope 
is  possible.  What  do  these  young  men  become? 
Scamps?  No:  good,  upright,  manly  Englishmen;  spe- 
cimens of  the  finest  race  in  the  world — English  gentle- 
men. ,  A  few  turn  out  badly,  but  they  are  the 
exceptions.  Look  at  the  mass  of  English  gentlemen — 
interrogate  their  youths,  and  see  from  what  youthful 
extravagances  these  men  have  emerged  to  become  the 
first  of  citizens. 

Is  this  a  defence  of  dissipation  ?  No ;  it  is  simply 
saying,  that  as  youth  is  foolish  and  exuberant,  its  acts 
will  be  folly ;  but  when  youth  passes  away,  it  carries 
with  it  the  cause  of  all  this  folly,  and  parents  should  not 
despair.  Instead  of  despairing,  they  should  observe. 
There  is  a  critical  period  in  the  young  man's  life,  when 
he  may  be  turned  to  any  thing  that  is  good.  It  is  then 
that  his  future  profession  or  avocation  will  have  power 
to  wean  him  from  his  habits.  It  is  then  his  character 
begins  to  consolidate.  Of  all  influences  capable  of 
directing  him  into  the  right  path,  none  is  so  powerful 
as  that  exercised  by  women.     If  he  loves,  he  is  saved. 

Harry  was  saved  by  love.  Isola's  little  Walter  had 
fallen  ill,  and  the  servant,  despatched  to  the  nearest 
surgeon,  came  to  Edwardes  Square.  As  Harry  entered 
the  room,  Isola  was  suddenly  struck  with  a  reminiscence 
of  his  face.  She  had  only  seen  him  once,  and  that  was 
on  the  occasion  recorded  early  in  this  veridical  history. 
She  had,  however,  forgotten  the  occasion,  and  only  re- 
membered it  after  he  had  left  the  house.  Her  repug- 
nance at  the  idea  of  meeting  him  again  was  heightened 
by  her  diffidence  in  his  skill ;  a  young  man  who  had 
been  such   a  student,  could  not  be  a  good  practitioner. 


THE     SURGEON.  257 

she  thought.  She  was  on  the  point  of  sending  for  other 
advice,  when  the  servant  casually  let  drop  Harry's 
name. 

Isola  started.  She  had  often  heard  Percy  speak  of 
him,  and  speak  of  him  in  the  highest  terms.  Could  this 
be  the  same  ?  She  trembled ;  but  recovering  from  her 
fears  by  recollecting  that  Percy  was  in  Germany,  she 
determined  to  let  things  take  their  course. 

That  night  Walter  slept  soundly,  and  the  fever 
abated.  Harry  looked  in  to  see  how  his  little  patient 
was  going  on,  as  he  said ;  to  see  once  more  the  lovely 
girl  watching  by  that  patient's  side,  he  meant.  He 
found  his  patient  recovering,  and  the  fair  watcher  grate- 
ful; she  thanked  him  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  He 
thought  he  had  never  seen  any  one  so  beautiful.  The 
large  lustrous  eyes  shining  beneath  that  queenly  brow, 
and  the  melancholy  sweetness  which  overspread  her 
whole  countenance,  strangely  affected  him.  It  was  im- 
possible to  look  upon  her  without  interest.  She  seemed 
formed  out  of  different  clay  from  ordinary  women ;  and 
there  was  about  her  an  undefinable  something  which 
seemed  to  indicate  that  her  life  had  a  hidden  romance 
in  It.     His  visit  was  a  long  one. 

His  visits  were  daily  longer  and  longer.  Walter 
improved  rapidly;  and  the  conversation,  which  followed 
the  medical  inquiries  and  prescriptions,  was  to  both  full 
of  charm.  To  Isola,  because  she  so  rarely  saw  a  cul- 
tivated person,  that  his  society  was  a  luxury.  To  him, 
because  he  could  have  gazed  for  ever  upon  that  melan- 
choly face,  and  hstened  to  her  musical  voice. 

Walter  at  length  became  so  strong,  that  even  Isola's 
anxiety  could  not  create  a  fear  for  him,  and  Harry  was 
forced  to  cease  his  visits. 

17 


258  RAN  THORPE. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

yes:  harry  is  in  love. 

He  brushes  his  hat  o'  mornings:  what  should  that  bode? 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

Ella  pelea  en  mi,  y  vence  en  mi,  y  yo  \nvo  y  respire  en  ella,  y 
tengo  vida  y  ser.  Do^  Quijote. 

Harry  began  to  have  suspicions  that  he  was  in 
love;  and  these  suspicions  were  not  idly  grounded. 
He  thought  of  nothing  but  Isola;  dreamt  of  nothing 
but  her;  heard  the  singular  intonations  of  her  voice  al- 
ways in  his  ears,  had  the  magic  of  her  beauty  always 
before  his  eyes. 

He  determined  to  extinguish  these  sparks,  and  re- 
solved to  see  her  no  more.     But  Byron  says,  that, 

"When  a  woman  hesitates  she's  lost." 

Woman  is  necessary  to  the  truth  of  the  rhythm,  but 
7nan  would  be  equally  good  for  the  truth  of  the  apho- 
rism.    What  is  hesitation  ? 

Hesitation  is  the  dalliance  with  a  resolution  never 
intended  to  be  enforced — a  sophistical  flattering  of  our 
weakness — a  patronage  of  reason,  which  we  laiow  to  be 
harmless;  in  a  word,  hesitation  is  \X\^  prudery  of  desire — 
the  "and  whispering  I  will  ne'er  consent,  consented" 
of  human  incongruity. 

When  a  man  resolves  to  tear  himself  from  the  fasci- 
nations of  a  woman, — you  may  be  sure  that  he  is  an 
epicurean,  refusing  a  luncheon  in  order  not  to  spoil  his 
dinner.     He  stays  away  for  a  day — perhaps  two — per- 


yes:    harry  is  in  love.  259 

haps  a  week.  He  returns  to  her  feet,  only  the  greater 
slave. 

Thus  Harry,  while  vowing  to  see  Isola  no  more, 
never  could  take  any  other  walk  but  that  up  Nightingale 
Lane.  The  beauty  of  the  lane  was  his  excuse;  which 
was  the  more  suspicious,  as  he  had  never  noticed  it  so 
curiously  before.  The  reason  also  of  his  always  keeping 
within  sight  of  her  house,  instead  of  winding  further  up 
the  lane,  he  never  asked  himself. 

For  two  whole  weeks,  his  walks  were  imgladdened 
by  a  sight  of  her,  and  his  irritation  at  the  disappoint- 
ment increased  every  day.  He  had  no  right  to  call, 
and  could  forge  no  reasonable  excuse.  All  this  while 
she  was  shut  up  in  her  room,  endeavoring  to  make  up 
for  the  time  she  had  lost  in  attending  on  Walter;  and  to 
be  able  to  meet  Mr.  Cavendish's  bill,  which  she  was  in 
daily  expectation  of  receiving,  and  which  she  feared 
would  be  large. 

One  day,  little  Walter  was  swinging  on  the  gate,  as 
HaiTy  came  up  the  lane.  Harry  was  delighted ;  Walter 
had  a  great  fondness  for  him,  and  thought  him  such  a 
"nice  gentleman."  They  played. and  talked  together; 
and  Harry  artfully  elicited  from  him  all  the  particulars 
of  Isola's  ways  of  life,  and  a  great  many  interesting 
traits  of  her  character. 

While  playing,  they  saw  her  come  out  of  the  house 
with  a  parcel  in  her  hand.  Walter  ran  up  to  her,  ex- 
claiming, "The  doctor! — the  doctor!"  who  followed, 
feeling  rather  nervous.  She  again  expressed  her  grati- 
tude for  the  cure  he  had  effected,  and  asked  him  if  she 
might  venture  to  take  Walter  into  town  with  her;  he 
replied,  that  he  thought  it  would  do  them  both  good, 
and  recollecting  that  he  also  was  going  into  town, 
17  * 


26o  RANTHORPE. 

begged  permission  to  accompany  her.  She  smiled  her 
acceptance,  and  passed  her  arm  within  his. 

As  he  felt  the  delicate  hand  of  his  beloved  gently- 
resting  on  his  arm,  he  experienced  a  sensation  almost 
equal  to  the  first  kiss;  and  he  walked  along,  "as  if  he 
trod  on  air." 

Harry  walked  and  talked;  was  fascinated  and  fasci- 
nating. The  turn  of  the  conversation  once  led  him  to 
mention  Ranthorpe.  Isola  trembled,  and  was  silent  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  then  said: 

"  Did  you  know  Mr.  Ranthorpe,  then  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  he,  intimately;  "we  lived  in  the 
same  house  together.     Do  you  know  him  ?" 

"  I — that  is — yes,  I  knew  him  in  his  father's  life- 
time—and— don't  you  admire  his  poems  ?" 

"  I  admire  everything  about  him,  except — ^but,  to 
be  sure,  he  has  cured  himself  of  that  error." 

"  What— error  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing — nothing — not  worth  mentioning. 
Yes,  Ranthorpe  and  I  have  spent  many  happy  hours 
together. — But  here  is  Mr.  Jones  standing  at  his  own 
door." 

They  entered,  and  the  subject  of  conversation  was 
changed.  When  Harry  returned  home  that  evening, 
he  confessed  himself  irretrievably  in  love ! 


THE    BETROTHMENT.  26l 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    BETROTHMENT. 

And  in  my  heart,  fair  angel,  chaste  and  wise, 
I  love  you  :   start  not,  speak  not,  answer  not 
I  love  you  :  nay,  let  me  speak  the  rest. 
Bid  me  to  swear,  and  I  will  call  to  record 
The  host  of  heaven. 

Woman  killed  with  Kindness. 

A  CLOSER  intimacy  had  sprung  up  between  Isola 
and  Harry:  their  meetings  were  favored  by  all  sorts 
of  pretext.  One  was  furnished  by  Walter's  mother, 
who  wished  Isola  would  take  Harry's  portrait — that  she 
might  preserve  the  likeness  of  the  saviour  of  her  boy, 
she  said — that  she  might  throw  the  two  together,  she 
meant 

The  subject  v/as  broached  one  evening,  and  Harry, 
who  saw,  prospectively  a  number  of  delicious  evenings, 
while  the  portrait  was  in  progress,  awaited  Isola's  reply 
with  considerable  agitation. 

"  You  know,"  pursued  Mrs.  Williams,  "  he  saved 
Walter,  and  we  owe  him  a  debt  of  gratitude." 

"  No  debt  can  be  more  willingly  paid  than  that," 
said  Isola. 

"  Will  it !"  he  exclaimed,  catching  her  hand  in  trans- 
port. 

Suddenly  recollecting  himself,  he  stammered  an  ex- 
cuse, and  walked  to  the  window.  This  action  surprised 
her;  and  still  greater  was  her  embarrassment  as  she  saw 
him  turn  round  again,  looking  very  agitated.  He  left 
the  house  after  vainly  endeavoring  to  keep  up  a  con- 
versation on  commonplaces. 


262  RANTHORPE. 

Isola  was  thoughtful.  The  last  few  minutes  had 
opened  tracks  of  thought  before  untrodden.  She  had 
known  him  only  three  months,  and  in  that  time  he  had 
completely  changed  from  the  wild,  exuberant,  medical 
student,  into  the  gentlemanly,  well-informed,  enthusi- 
astic, noble-resolved  man  he  was  at  present.  He  had 
lost  all  taint  of  the  medical  student.  She  was  struck 
with  the  amount  of  alteration.  The  transitions  had 
been  so  gradual  as  to  be  unobserved  :  the  changed  man 
alone  was  recognized. 

Whence  this  change  ? 

Isola  was  no  sophist,  and  therefore  did  not  "reject 
with  modesty  "  the  idea  which  forced  itself  upon  her, 
that  she  was  the  cause — that  love  for  her  had  brought 
him,  from  the  wandering  extravagances  of  youth,  back 
to  his  natural  disposition.  She  contemplated  the  prob- 
ability of  this,  and  every  thing  occurring  to  confirm  it, 
she  acknowledged  it  as  a  fact.  She  was  not  displeased 
at  it. 

Did  she  then  love  him  ? 

She  knew  not.  Her  heart  had  for  so  long  been 
shut,  even  to  hope,  that  she  had  ceased  to  think  of  love; 
and  now  that  she  was  forced  to  interrogate  her  feelings, 
she  found  them  so  confused,  that  no  conclusion  could 
be  drawn  from  them.  That  she  was  delighted  when- 
ever he  came, — that  she  was  fascinated  by  his  conversa- 
tion, so  full  of  enthusiasm  and  fine  feeling, — that  she 
was  thoughtful,  and  often  weary,  when  he  was  away  \ — 
all  this  she  knew,  and  acknowledged.  But  was  this 
feeling  love  ?  At  times  she  thought  it  was  :  at  others 
she  compared  it  with  her  love  for  Percy,  and  a  curious 
difference  was  perceptible. 

This  perplexity  increased  each  evening  as  he  sat  for 


THE    BETROTHMENT.  263 

his  portrait :  each  night  she  went  to  bed  with  a  surer 
feeling  that  he  loved  her;  but  whether  she  felt  for  him 
the  affection  of  a  wife,  she  could  not  answer. 

One  evening,  as  they  sat  talking  about  their  early 
years,  her  voice  faltered.  She  said  that  painful  recol- 
lections always  prevented  her  indulging  in  long  retro- 
spections. She  paused — she  knew  not  what  she  was 
about  to  utter,  and  dreading  lest  she  should  commit 
herself,  she  stopped  abruptly. 

Harry  was  breathless.  She  walked  to  the  window, 
and  pulled  aside  the  curtains.  The  young  moon  shone 
full  upon  her  face ;  she  gazed  on  it  in  silence.  There 
she  stood,  trembling  with  vague,  voluptuous,  yet  op- 
pressive thoughts,  which  crowded  on  her  brain. 

"  The  holy  time  was   quiet  as  a  nun, 
Breathless  with  adoration.' 

She  gazed  upon  the  scene,  unconscious  of  its  beauty; 
but  her  thoughts  were  not  uninfluenced  by  it.  She  was 
in  a  waking  dream;  the  present  and  the  past  were  dead, 
and  slie  was  sailing  down  the  sunny  streams  that  inter- 
sect the  dream-land  of  the  future.  She  was  unconscious 
of  Harry's  presence.  He  sat  gazing  at  her  with  aching 
eyes,  rapt  in  adoration. 

Her  quick  thoughts  gave  a  sudden  flushing  to  her 
cheek,  and  a  sparkle  to  her  eye ;  her  lips  were  parted,  as 
by  an  eager  breath,  and  a  smile  of  ecstasy  ran  over 
them  from  lime  to  time.  Her  bosom  panted  quickly  ; 
she  was  in  a  state  of  great  nervous  excitement,  yet 
moved  not,  but  stood  there  in  the  moonlight,  like  a 
statue,  gazing  on  the  moon,  "  that  with  so  wan  a  face" 
rolled  upwards  through  the  sky.  This  continued  only 
a  few  minutes,  but  those  minutes  were  as  years  in  thought. 


264  RANTHORPE. 

Her  smile  then  died  away;  her  eyes  became  meaning- 
less ;  and  a  long  deep  sigh  told  that  her  vision  was  at  an 
end,  and  that  she  had  fallen  from  the  clouds  to  eartJi 
again. 

He  rose  and  walked  up  to  her.  She  turned  towards 
him  with  a  faint  smile,  and  extended  her  hand  to  him. 
He  took  it  in  both  of  his,  and  pressed  it  in  silence.  She 
returned  the  pressure. 

"  Miss  Churchill — Isola — do  you  read  my  heart  ?" 

"  I  do,"  she  answered,  again  pressing  bis  hand  in  that 
simple,  truthful  manner  which  characterized  her ;  "  but 
I  a.m  unworthy  of  it — I  cannot  give  you  in  return  tbe 
same  devout  affection — mine  is  a  widowed  heart." 

She  then  related  her  past  history.  Sbe  told  him  of 
her  early  love,  of  Percy's  coolness,  of  his  ambition,  amd 
finally  of  his  inconstancy.  She  told  him  how  her  beart 
had  been  sacrificed  to  the  allurements  of  a  coquette. 
Woman-like,  she  laid  all  the  blame  upon  herself,  excus- 
ing every  way  her  lo^er. 

Harry  was  speechless.  He  knew  nothing  of  Percy's 
love  for  Isola.  Such  conduct  from  his  best  friend  to. one 
he  most  loved  in  this  world,  completely  overcame  him. 
He  drooped  his  head  upon  his  breast,  and  gave  way  to 
sorrow.   A  long  silence  ensued. 

"  Isola,"  said  he  at  length,  "  you  have  indeed  been 
wronged — but  you  have  loved  Percy — perhaps  love  him 
still." 

'•  No,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  sorrowfully;  "I 
do  not  love  him. — I  have  long  been  cured  of  that," 

"  Indeed ;  then  you — ?" 

"  I  can  offer  you  only  a  widowed  heart — but  that  is 
yours.  I  have  been  frank  with  you — I  have  been  explicit, 
because  on  such  occasions  any  misunderstanding  is  the 


THE    BETROTH  MENT.  265 

cause  of  misery.  I  do  not  love  you  as  /  have  loved.  I 
.  .  .  esteem  you;  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  any  one 
else  in  the  world — but — " 

"  But  what?" 

"  I  have  one  condition  to  affix ;  that  is  one  twelve- 
month's delay." 

"  Oh  !  why  delay  our  happiness  ?" 

"  In  order  to  secure  it ;  not  from  mere  caprice,  belie^^e 
me.  Listen.  As  I  told  you,  I  have  great  affection  for  you; 
but  whether  as  one  dear  friend  loves  another,  or  whether 
as  a  wife  should  love  her  husband,  I  know  not.  I  have 
interrogated  my  feelings  very,  very  often,  but  cannot  get 
a  clear,  decisive  answer.  All  that  I  can  promise,  there- 
fore, is  to  be  a  faithful  wife  and  companion.  I  cannot 
promise  to  return  yoiir  affection.  Duty  is  in  our  power  ; 
not  so  feeling.  It  is  very  important  to  our  future  happi- 
ness that  you  should  be  convinced  that  you  would  be 
contented  with  a  widowed  heart ;  it  is  important  that, 
all  the  obstacles  to  your  love  being  removed,  you 
should  render  it  amenable  to  reason,  and  calmly  judge 
whether  our  union  would  be  productive  of  the  happiness 
you  seek.     In  less  than  a  year  you  may  repent — " 

"  Impossible !"  he  interrupted. 

"  I  do  not  say  you  will.,  but  you  may ;  it  is  well  to 
guard  against  such  things.  If  therefore  on  this  day 
twelvemonth  you  still  desire  our  union,  I  promise  to  be 
yours;  if  before  that  you  have  reflected  on  all  circum- 
stances, and  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  your 
happiness  would  be  uncertain  without  my  love,  then 
will  we  be  as  brother  and  sister,  and  never  mention  the 
subject  again." 

"  But  I  am  convinced ;  how  could  I  cease  to  love 
vou  ?" 


266  RANTHORPE. 

"  No ;  I  am  inflexible.  A  year's  delay  to  procure  a 
life's  happiness,  is  surely  a  small  sacrifice." 

"  I  will  not  oppose  your  wishes,  dearest  love;  but 
be  assured  that  then,  as  now,  as  ever,  it  will  be  my 
pride,  my  rapture  only  to  call  you  mine." 

And  thus  they  were  affianced. 


CHAPTER     VI. 

THE    BIRTHDAY. 

Lass  diesen  Blick, 
Lass  diesen  Handedruck  dir  sagen, 
Was  unaussprechlich  ist.  Faust. 

Ranthorpe  remained  two  years  in  Berlin,  support- 
ing himself  by  giving  English  lessons  to  the  young  ladies 
of  the  upper  classes,  and  devoting  all  his  leisure  to  hard 
study.  He  lived  a  solitary  life,  but  on  the  whole,  a 
happy  one.  He  knew  that  he  was  preparing  himself 
for  the  great  combat  with  the  world,  and  determined 
this  time  not  to  fail  from  inconsiderate  haste.  Many 
were  his  delicious  reveries  when  rambling  through  the 
wild  Thiergarten,  which  in  winter,  when  covered  with 
snow,  looks  so  poetically  desolate,  and  which  in  sum- 
mer forms  a  shady  retreat.  There,  amidst  its  "  leafy- 
solitudes, "  he  meditated  on  the  vexed  problems  of 
philosophy,  or  scrutinized  the  mysteries  of  art.  There 
he  was  supremely  happy. 

He  then  went  to  Dresden,  where  he  stayed  some 
months  in  almost  daily  communion  with  the  master- 
spirits whose  immortal  pictures  grace  the  museum,  and 
when  he  knew  by  heart  every  tint  of  the  Sistine  Ma- 


THE    BIRTHDAY.  20; 

donna  and  the  Seggiola  of  Raphael — the  Maddalena, 
Notte,  and  St.  Sebastian  of  Correggio — the  Venus,  and 
the  Christo  del  Moneta  of  Tidan — the  pomp  and  mag- 
nificence of  Paul  Veronese,  and  the  varied  power  of 
Rubens,  Ranthorpe  thought  of  returning  to  London. 
He  had  a  tragedy  in  his  portfolio,  such  as  his  most 
rigorous  criticism  ceuld  not  throw  any  doubts  on,  and 
with  that  he  hoped  to  achieve  a  name  in  literature. 

He  returned ;  went  through  the  usual  harassing  pre- 
liminaries, which  need  not  again  be  described,  and  at 
length  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his  labors  crowned 
with  success.  His  tragedy  was  an  extraordinary  work, 
and  startled  the  public  into  enthusiasm.  A  great  tragedy 
it  was  not;  if  we  understand  by  the  term,  such  a  work 
as  our  magnificent  dramatic  hterature  has  entided  us  to 
expect  from  every  ambitious  aspirant.  But  though  not 
proof  against  severe  scrutiny,  it  had  incontestible  merits: 
power,  passion,  rapidity,  and  beautiful  poetry.  It  drew 
crowds  to  the  theatre  nightly;  it  was  read  by  everyone; 
reviewed  everywhere;  was  played  in  the  provinces;  and, 
in  short,  was  a  trium.ph.  Ranthorpe  from  that  day  took 
his  place  amongst  the  literary  men  of  England. 

He  had,  in  part,  at  least,  realized  the  dreams  of  his 
boyhood.  But  although  a  proud  consciousness  of 
owing  his  success  solely  to  his  own  energy  and  genius, 
from  time  to  time  made  his  heart  beat  with  satisfaction, 
yet,  on  the  whole,  he  felt  no  such  delight  as  his  boyish 
expectations  had  pictured.  Success,  after  all,  is  not  so 
gratifying  as  people  imagine ;  while  failure  is  horribly 
depressing.  Where  then  is  the  poet's  reward  ?  In 
activity — in  creation — in  the  healthy  employment  of 
his  faculties.     There,  and  nowhere  else,  is  his  reward  ! 

Ranthorpe  might  of  course  easily  have  been  made  a 


268  RANTHORPE. 

"  Lion  "  again — a  "  Lion,"  too,  roaring  in  a  far  wider 
den  than  before.  But  he  had  seen  through  that  folly. 
He  was  not  a  second  time  to  be  seduced.  All  invita- 
tions whatever  were  steadily  refused.  He  was  to  be  seen 
at  the  houses  of  a  few  friends — people  whom  he  es- 
teemed and  admired  in  spite  of  their  position,  were  it 
high  or  low — but  he  was  "  to  be  had,"  as  the  phrase 
goes,  nowhere.  He  offended  a  number  of  people,  who 
accused  him  of  affectation — of  wishing  to  make  him- 
self of  consequence — but  he  never  moved  from  the  path 
lie  had  chalked  out  for  himself.  He  led  a  quiet,  studi- 
ous, meditative,  melancholy  life. 

Yes,  melancholy,  for  he  had  not  forgotten  Isola. 
His  success  seemed  robbed  of  its  charms,  because  she 
was  not  near  him  to  share  it.  In  his  quiet,  studious  life 
lie  pined  for  the  sunshine  of  her  presence. 

And  Isola  also  thought  constantly  of  him.  She  and 
Harry  had  been  twice  to  see  his  play — had  read  it  aloud 
to  each  other — and  he  often  found  her  weeping  over  it. 
She  knew  it  by  heart ;  and  yet  there  seemed  a  fascina- 
tion in  the  page,  which  nothing  could  wear  off.  The 
heroine  pretty  much  resembled  her  in  character;  so  that 
when  she  read  the  impassioned  love  passages,  she  seemed 
to  hear  Percy  uttering  them  to  her:  and  her  eyes  would 
till  with  tears  of  exquisite  pain. 

Harry  grew  fretful  and  uneasy.  The  calm  delicious 
hours  he  had  been  accustomed  to  spend  with  Isola  were 
now  converted  into  jealous  watchings  of  her  counte- 
nance. She  often  spoke  of  Ranthorpe  ;  and,  although 
nothing  betrayed  to  him  a  renewal  of  her  former  love, 
nor  even  a  wish  to  meet  Percy  again,  yet  there  was  no 
concealing  the  very  great  interest  she  continued  to  take 
in  his  welfare.      Everv  mention  of  his  name  jarred  upon 


THE     BIRTHDAY.  269 

Harry's  feelings;  every  inquiry  seemed  to  him  tanta- 
ment  to  a  wish  for  his  presence.  He  asked  her  one  day 
to  consent  to  see  him,  in  order  that  this  suspense  might 
cease. 

**  No,"  she  replied.  "  It  is  better  as  it  is  :  it  is  better 
for  all  sakes  that  I  should  not  see  him;  at  all  events  till 
I  am  married.  I  could  not  see  him  :  it  would  open 
wounds  now  healed ;  it  would  lead  to  explanations  as 
painful  as  they  must  be  useless." 

It  was  in  vain  that  she  declined  seeing  him.  Harry 
saw  too  plainly  that  her  thoughts  were  constantly  in 
that  direction.  A  painful  sense  of  dread  oppressed  him : 
dread  of  losing  her  he  best  loved  upon  earth.  He  was 
willing  to  accept  of  her  widowed  heart :  it  would  have 
made  him  the  happiest  of  men  ;  but  her  estranged  heart 
he  could  not  accept. 

After  many  struggles  with  himself — after  many  plans 
laid  down  and  broken  as  soon  as  made,  he  determined 
that  his  fate  should  be  decided :  he  determined  that 
Isola  and  her  lover  should  meet  again,  and  that  if  they 
loved  each  other  still,  he  would  relinquish  his  claim. 
If  they  no  longer  loved,  all  jealousy  would  be  at  an 
end. 

"  I  forgive  your  jealousy,"  she  replied,  "  it  is  most 
natural;  but  beheve  me  it  is  groundless.  Percy  no 
longer  loves  me.  It  is  impossible  for  me  not  to  feel  in- 
tensely interested  in  him.  I  cannot  forget  that  my  ex- 
istence was  once  bound  up  in  his.  I  cannot  forget  all 
the  delicious  associations  of  the  past; — nor  all  \\\t pangs 
which  grew  out  of  them.  But  do  not  let  me  see  him. 
I  have  pleasant  thoughts  of  him,  for  I  think  of  him  as 
he  was.  I  have  not  seen  him  since  that  fatal  day — the 
sight   would  awaken   feelings — painful  feelings,  which 


270  RANTHORPE. 

you,  dearest,"  she  added  placing  her  hand  affectionately 
on  his,  "  have  caused  me  to  forget." 

"  Bless  you  for  those  words !"  he  cried,  in  transport. 

"  Look  at  the  drawing  I  have  just  finished,"  she 
said,  holding  one  up  to  him,  and  anxious  to  change 
the  current  of  his  thoughts.  "Are  you  pleased  with 
it?" 

"  Mr.  Herbert  will  be  enchanted !" 

"  Never  mind  others — what  do  you  think — does  it 
quite  satisfy  you  ?" 

"  I  think  it  exquisite — as  every  thing  you  touch  must 
be.  But  now  I  look  into  it — you  really  have  surpassed 
yourself!  Those  trees  glistening  with  rain  drops,  look  so 
cool!  Those  shrubs  and  the  grass,  so  fresh  and  green, 
have  just  the  appearance  of  a  recent  shower;  and  I 
seem  to  smell  the  keen  perfume  crushed  from  them  by 
the  rain.  That  little  rivulet  is  charming,  as  It  runs  along 
there  under  those  lush  weeds,  and  turns  down  by  the 
stile,  on  which  that  boy  is  sitting  in  perfect  summer  con- 
tentment, flinging  into  the  water  the  pieces  of  stick  he 
breaks  off  from  the  hedge. — I  long  to  be  in  the  rogue's 
place — with  some  ove  by  my  side." 

"I'm so  happy!  I  have  taken  such  pains  with  this 
picture.  Look  close  at  it,  and  see  if  you  cannot  trace 
its  meaning." 

"  The  clouds  rolled  away  in  the  distance,  and  fringed 
with  gold — the  clear  blue  sky^ — glistening,  radiant 
.flowers — " 

"  My  past  life  is  in  those  clouds,"  she  added,  gravely, 
"  my  present  happiness  is  in  the  sky  and  flowers.  That 
boy  is  Walter  ;  that  rivulet  is  the  stream  of  our  happy 
days.     The  picture  is  for  you,  dearest," 

"  For  me,  Isola  ?" 


THE     BIRTHDAY.  271 

"  Yes,  to-day  is  your  birthday — this  is  my  remem- 
brance of  it." 

"  So  it  is. — I  had  quite  forgotten  it.  And  how  am 
I  to  thank  you  ?" 

"By  being  happy." 

"  I  am  supremely  so." 

"  Not  while  you  are  jealous." 

"  I  am  so  no  longer. — Isola,"  said  he,  after  a  pause, 
"  in  four  months  hence  you  will  be  mine;  can  you  not 
shorten  the  time  ?" 

"  I  told  you  to  be  happy,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  and 
you  promised  obedience.  Is  this  the  way  you  fulfil 
promises?" 

There  was  no  resisting  this.  Harry  felt  that  she 
loved  him.  True,  her  love  was  very  different  from  the 
eager  passion  which  devoured  him;  true,  she  was  calm, 
pensive,  melancholy,  though  affectionate,  with  the  love 
more  of  a  sister ;  but  still  she  did  love  him,  she  was  af- 
fectionate, and  she  loved  no  one  else.  She  had  made 
him  comprehend  her  feeling  for  Percy. 

"  Remember,"  she  said,  "  that  although  the  wrong  he 
did  me  almost  broke  my  heart,  yet  it  was  the  deed  of  a 
day,  it  was  only  one  action ;  but  the  years  of  happiness, 
and  constant  love,  which  I  passed  with  him  before  that, 
—the 

"...  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love. 

which  endeared  him  to  me — these  I  cannot  forget.  If 
I  remember  the  suffering  he  has  caused  me,  I  also  re- 
member all  the  pleasure.  I  love  him  for  that  pleasure; 
his  image  is  the  central  figure  of  a  world  of  sweet  as- 
sociations.    But  were  I  to  see  him  now,  he  would   only 


272  RANTHORPE. 

recall  dark  and  bitter  thoughts,  and  rip  open  wounds 
that  bleed  no  longer." 

"Sister  Isola,"  said  little  Walter,  bounding  into  the 
room. 

"Well,  my  pet?" 

"  Will  you  go  with  us  to  Richmond  to-morrow?" 

"  No,  dear,  I  have  work  to  do." 

"  Do  you  like  work  better  than  play  ?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  laughing,  and  patting  the  ingen- 
uous face  that  was  turned  upwards  to  her;  "but,  as  I 
often  tell  you,  Walter,  I  must  work,  and  very  hard  too, 
to  get  my  bread." 

"You  always  say  that,"  said  the  child.  "  You  seem 
to  think  bread  more  valuable  than  pudding  J  " 

Isola  caught  him  in  her  arms,  and  stifled  her  laughter 
with  kissing  the  young  philosopher. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    DREAIM. 

Oh  !  come  viva  in  mezzo  alle  tenebre 
Sorgea  la  clolce  imago  e  gli  occhi  chiusi 
La  contemplavan  sotto  alle  palpebre? 
Oh  come  soavissimi  diffusi 
Moti  par  I'ossa  mi  serpeano !  oh  come 
Mille  neir  alma  instabili,  confusi 
Pensieri  si  volgean ! 

GiACOMO  Leopardi  :  Canti. 

Quando  in  sul  tempo  che  piii  leve  il  sonno 

E  piu  soave  le  pupille  adombra, 

Stettemi  allato  e  riguardommi  in  viso 

II  simulacro  di  colei  che  amore, 

Prima  insegnommi,  e  poi  lasciommi  in  pianto. 

Ibid. 

It  is  a  bright  riiorning  in  spring.     The  lark  is  up, 
and  cutting  through  the  sky,  pouring  forth  his  joy  in  such 


THE    DREAM.  273 

a  gush  of  song,  that  the  rapid  notes  seem  to  trip  each 
other  up  in  eagerness  of  utterance.  The  trees  and  grass 
are  .spangled  with  the  morning  dew;  all  is  bright,  fresh, 
and  exhilarating  as  thoughts  of  youth. 

Isola  rises  from  her  bed  with  slow,  reluctant  grace, 
for  she  had  passed  the  night  in  dreams  of  ecstasy,  from 
which  it  was  a  pang  to  awake. 

She  dreamt  that  she  was  in  a  thick,  entangled  wood. 
She  was  plucking  the  woodbine,  and  the  fragrant  flowers 
that  grew  up  to  her  hand.  Suddenly  a  rustle  of  the 
leaves  startled  her,  and  turning,  she  beheld  Percy  at  her 
side.  He  was  pale  and  care-worn,  a  strange  light  shone 
in  his  eyes;  a  radiant  smile  played  round  his  lips,  and 
around  all  his  person  tliere  was  a  gleam  of  glory.  She 
held  out  her  hand  to  him  in  silence ;  in  silence  he  took 
it,  and  gazed  wistfully  into  her  eyes. 

"Do  you  forgive  me?"  said  he  at  last. 

His  voice  seriously  affected  her;  it  seemed  like  a 
stream  of  warm  music;  it  seemed  like  music,  and  yet  it 
seemed  to  pour  along  her  nerves  trembling  and  warm. 
She  could  not  answer  him. 

He  spoke  again,  and  she  found  herself  in  his  arms, 
thrilled  with  liis  kisses. 

And  they  wandered  through  the  wood,  plucking  the 
loveliest  flowers,  breathing  the  tenderest  vows,  and 
planning  events  for  the  future.  Their  hearts  were  indis- 
solubly  united  in  one  delicious  feeling.  The  pale  moon 
smiled  upon  them  through  the  enwoven  branches ;  the 
breeze  sighed  mournfully  amongst  the  leaves,  and  an- 
swered to  their  sighs;  they  walked  on  air;  a  spirit 
seemed  to  permeate  their  beings,  filling  them  with  new 
life,  and  the  soft  murmur  of  each  other's  voice  stirred 
their  hearts  stranc;elv. 


2  74  RANTHORPE. 

She  awoke,  and  the  dull  white  curtains  met  her  en- 
chanted gaze;  she  awoke,  and  her  lover  was  afar.  She 
endeavored  to  sleep  again,  that  she  might  feel  the  raj)- 
ture  of  her  dream,  but  in  vain.  Pensive  and  sad,  she 
rose,  and  began  her  toilet. 

She  nevertheless,  had  dreamed  of  him,  and  could 
again  conjure  up  that  vision,  though  knowing  it  to  be  a 
vision.  She  had  dreamed  of  him,  and  that  dream 
haunted  her  like  a  passion.  Who  does  not  know  this 
feeling?  Who  is  there  that  has  not  spent  some  blissful 
moments  in  a  dream,  with  perhaps  some  person  they 
have  never  spoken  to,  but  of  whom  they  continue  to 
think,  on  waking,  with  unspeakable  tenderness  ? 

It  is  one  of  the  subtle  mysteries  of  our  nature,  it  is 
one  of  the  manifold,  unappreciable  infltieiices  which 
mould  and  modify  the  condition  of  the  mind,  how,  or 
why,  we  know  not.  It  is  one  of  those  things,  trivial  in 
their  origin,  but  important  in  their  effects,  which  make 
up  that  which  (if  I  may  venture  on  the  phrase)  I  would 
call  the  atmosphere  of  life;  for  we  breathe  in  it,  we  live 
by  it. 

More  good-will  is  generated  in  happy  dreams  than 
any  one  is  aware  of.  If  a  coolness  separates  two  friends, 
let  one  dream  pleasantly  of  the  other,  and  his  heart  will 
yearn  for  reconciliation.  If  lovers  quarrel,  a  dream 
unites  them  again.  The  mind  invests  the  reality  with 
the  splendor  of  its  own  imagination;  it  refuses  to  be- 
lieve the  object  less  good  or  great,  than  it  has  known  it 
in  those  brief  moments  of  communion.  I  have  known 
a  dream  hang  about  me  for  days  together,  exciting  me 
to  actions  wdiich  cooler  moments  have  condemned. 
^Vho,  when  he  thus  interrogates  his  own  experience,  will 
wonder  at  the  quick  credulity,  which,  giving  forms  to  its 


THE    DREAM.  275 

conceptions,  believes  the  voices  which  resounded  in  a 
dream,  were  voices  from  above;  warnings  or  counsels 
addressed  to  no  mortal  sense,  but  hifused  into  the  im- 
mortal soul? 

Haunted  by  her  dream,  Isola  was  suddenly  shaken 
by  the  sound  of  Percy's  voice  in  the  adjoining  room, 
caUing  her  to  come  to  him.  It  was  some  moments 
before  she  could  persuade  herself  that  it  was  not  an  illu- 
sion; but  his  impassioned  accents  once  more  thrilled 
her  with  deUght,  and  rushing  into  the  room,  she  fell  into 
his  arms,  uttering  a  scream  of  joy. 

O  joy!  O  rapture!  It  was  indeed  Percy; — it  was 
indeed  her  lover!  It  was  her  dream  realized!  This 
was  no  vision;  she  felt  it  was  not,  as  she  felt  his  heart 
beating  beneath  her  own,  and  his  breath  mingling  with 
her  own.     They 

"Saw  each  other's  dark  eyes  darting  hght 
Into  each  other — and  beholding  this, 
Their  lips  drew  near,  and  clung  into  a  kiss." 

And  thus  they  rested  in  each  other's  arms;  speech- 
less, because  their  hearts  were  full,  and  because  both 
feared  to  break  the  charm.  Much  had  they  suftered 
since  their  last  embrace ! — fretful  sorrow  and  sick  disap- 
pointment; but  here  they  were  again  united,  with  hearts 
untamed  by  sorrow,  crowding  an  eternity  into  a  kiss! 

They  were  both  much  changed  in  appearance  since 
their  last  meeting.  Suffering,  illness,  and  study,  had 
thinned  his  cheek,  and  given  a  more  spiritual  delicac}' 
to  his  brow.  He  had,  moreover,  changed  from  a  boy 
into  a  man;  and  though  perhaps  scarcely  so  handsome, 
he  had  grown  more  interesting.  Suffering,  and  brood- 
ing meditation,  had  also  touched  with  melancholy  lines 

18  ^ 


276  RANTHORPE. 

the  noble  brow  and  meaning-full  mouth  of  Isola,  robbing 
her  of  some  of  that  naive,  youthful  charm  which  had  so 
exquisitely  tempered  her  august  and  queenly  bearing. 
You  could  not  look  upon  her  without  at  once  divining 
that  she  had  long  been  a  prey  to  some  silent  sorrow ; 
but  you  also  saw  that  if  she  had  struggled,  she  had 
gained  the  victory  at  last. 

She  took  his  head  between  her  hands,  and  gazed  in- 
tensely at  him,  to  convince  her  exulting  heart  that  his 
presence  was  not  a  vision.  She  twined  her  fingers  in 
his  silky  hair  with  a  sort  of  impatience,  and  gazed  upon 
his  lovely  face  upturned  to  hers  in  ardent  adoration. 
He  pressed  her  to  him,  and  kissed  her  luxuriant  hair 
which  fell  in  disorder  over  her  shoulders,  for  she  had  not 
stopped  to  bind  it  up.  And  it  was  not  till  their  first 
transi)orts  were  over  that  he  became  conscious  of  not 
having  asked  her  forgiveness  of  the  past.  He  began  to 
stammer  his  excuses : 

"Dearest  Percy,"  she  said,  '*do  not  recall  the  past — 
not  even  to  weep  over  it,  as  an  error.  You  need  no 
excuses — it  is  enough  for  me  to  see  you  here,  to  feel 
your  hand,  to  tremble  at  the  sound  of  your  voice — oh  [ 
do  not  look  back  on  the  past ! " 

"  Blessed  one! "  he  exclaimed,  *'  you  forgive  me  then  ? 
you  give  me  again  that  heart  which  this  time  I  shall 
know  how  to  prize  ?     You  are  again  my  love — my  wife  ?" 

"  Wife  !"  she  shrieked,  starting  up,  and  recoiling 
from  him. 

"  Are  you  not  my  Isola  ?" 
"  O  /  it  7i'as  a  dream — and  I  am  thus  awakened  !  " 

She  fell  senseless  at  his  feet. 

Alarmed  and  surprised,  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  and 
raised  her  to  the  sofa,  chafing  her  hands,  and  kissing  her 


THE    DREAM.  277 

lips.  He  called  on  her,  implored  her  to  answer  him,  but 
.she  heard  him  not. 

"  I  have  killed  her,"  he  frantically  exclaimed. 

A  deep  sigh  heaved  her  breast,  and  she  slowly  opened 
her  eyes.  He  was  so  overjoyed  at  this  sign  of  life  that 
he  nearly  stifled  her  with  kisses.  She  pushed  him  from 
her,  with  a  convulsive  eftbrt,  exclaiming : 

"  Percy !  Percy  ! — do  not  touch  me — J  am  an- 
other's !" 

"  Another's  ?"  said  he,  puzzled  yet  alarmed. 

"  Oh  !  yes,"  she  sobbed, ''  it  was  a  dream — a  dream! 
Percy,  /am  engagedy 

"  Impossible — you?" 

"  Too  true  ! — too  true  !" 

A  long  silence  ensued. 

She  gave  way  to  her  feelings  of  despair,  and  he  to 
his  of  resentment.  \Vhen  he  heard  her  pronounce  those 
terrible  words,  he  felt  it  as  an  insult.  She  was  thinking 
of  poor  Harry  ;  thinking  of  her  folly,  in  believing  that 
her  love  for  Percy  was  dead,  because  it  was  silent. 

"  And  you  are  engaged,"  he  said,  bitterly. 

"Alas! — alas! — but  hear  me,  Percy,  before  you 
judge  me." 

"  No  ;  it  is  enough  for  me  to  have  lost  you,"  he  an- 
swered, rising  from  his  seat.  "  I  cannot  reproach  you 
— I  ought  to  have  expected  this — I  deserved  it." 

"  Percy,"  she  said ;  and  he  could  not  resist  the 
plaintive  reproachfulness  of  her  tone ;  so  reseating  him- 
self, he  hstened  to  the  history  of  her  life  since  their  last 
meeting  up  to  the  evening  of  her  betrothment. 

"He  offered  me  his  hand,"  she  continued,  "as  he 
had  given  me  his  heart,  frankly,  but  humbly.  He  knew 
I  did  not  love  him  :  he  knew  1  loved  another :  still  he 


278  RANTHORPE. 

offered  me  his  hand.  My  position  was  perilous  ;  I  had 
lost  you,  as  I  thought,  for  ever.  I  had  no  friends.  He, 
above  all  men,  was  the  one  I  most  esteemed — most 
loved  :  loved  with  a  pure  and  lasting  affection,  quite 
capable  of  happiness  in  marriage.  In  his  affection  1 
saw  a  home  of  peace  and  content — and  therefore  did  I 
pledge  him  my  -hand — I  never  repented  it  till  now  !" 
And  she  buried  her  face  within  her  hands. 

The  simple  tale  of  a  suffering  he  himself  had  caused, 
oppressed  Ranthorpe  with  a  dreadful  sense  of  his 
treacherous  conduct ;  and  he  felt  that  he  deserved  to 
lose  this  priceless  treasure,  as  Harry  deserved  to  win  it. 
He  was  stupified  with  this  thought;  he  was  as  one 
crushed  to  earth,  without  power  of  escape ;  he  felt  that 
the  present  moment  must  decide  his  fate,  and  he  felt 
that  the  decision  would  be  unfavorable. 

Tears  came  to  his  relief,  and  he  wept  like  a  child. 
They^vept  together  in  silence,  broken  only  by  their  sobs. 
They  were  both  devouring  their  misery — both  driving 
deeper  in,  with  savage  hands,  the  barbed  arrows  of  re- 
morse. 

And  yet  she  loved  him !  could  he,  then,  renounce 
her  ? 

"  You  cannot — shall  not  be  another's  !"  he  at  length 
exclaimed.     "  You  are  mine — mine  only  !" 

She  sobbed,  but  uttered  no  word. 

"  You  love  me,  Isola — do  you  not  ?  Answer  me  : 
is  not  your  heart  mine  ? — your  soul  mine  ?" 

Her  sobs  became  hysterical,  but  still  she  spoke  not. 

"  Isola,  dearest  Isola,  I  implore  you,  answer  me. 
Tell  me  that  you  do  not  love  me,  and— I  will  leave — 
leave  you  at  once."  His  voice  faltered,  but  she  trembled 
more  beneath  its  tones,  than  he  beneath  his  anguish. 


THE    DREAM.  279 

She  was  silent.  A  sudden  ray  seemed  to  streak 
across  the  darkness  of  lier  soul,  revealing  there  a  duty, 
and  a  glimpse  of  hope.  The  duty  of  fulfilling  her  vow 
to  Harry  commanded  her  to  prevaricate  with  Perc}-. 
"  If  he  thinks  1  love  him  still,"  she  thought,  "  I  am 
lost." 

She  raised  her  head,  and  looked  him  steadtastly  in 
the  face. 

"  Isola,  decide  my  fate.  Is  there  another  tie  besides 
your  vow  which  binds  you  to  him  ?" 

"  There  is !"  she  answered  earnestly,  glad  of  being 
able  thus  to  escape  a  falsehood. 

His  lower  jaw  suddenly  fell,  like  that  of  one  smitten 
by  death.  He  gazed  upon  her  with  a  look  of  wonder- 
ment and  sorrow,  and  sighing  deeply  faltered  out:  "  May 
you  be  happy — very  happy!" — and  moved  towards  the 
door. 

As  he  placed  his  hand  upon  the  door,  he  was  startled 
by  one  convulsive  sob,  that  seemed  to  burst  her  bosom 
— he  turned  round,  and  saw  that  she  had  fallen  back 
upon  the  sofa,  prostrate  with  grief,  her  face  hidden  in 
her  hands;  her  sobs  thrilled  him,  and  he  sighed  heavily. 
She  looked  up,  and  l)eheld  him  gazing  on  her  in  inex- 
pressible rapture. 

"  Percy !"  she  murmured,  and  closed  her  eyes  again. 

"  Yes,  your  Percy — for  ever  yours  !  We  will  part 
no  more ! — we  will  grieve  no  more !  You  love  me ! 
You  are  mine  ! — say  that  you  are  mine ! — say  that  you 
will  not  foolishly  condemn  us  both  to  everlasting  sor- 
row—" 

"  Percy,  I  have  pledged  my  hand  to  another — I 
must  and  will  fulfil  my  vows." 

"  No,  no,  no — your  vows  are  mine.     I  have  a  prior 


28o  RANTHORPE. 

claim — a  stronger,  deeper  claim :  I  have  your  heart ! 
Oh !  think  well,  Isola,  before  you  act,  and  think  upon 
the  consequences  of  that  act !  You  love  me — think  of 
that !  Think  of  your  lot,  joined  to  one,  and  loving  an- 
other! Think  of  all  the  treasures  of  your  life  thus 
wasted,  all  the  dearest  feelings  of  your  nature  crushed, 
withered,  turned  back  upon  themselves.  Oh !  think 
what  it  is  that  you  are  about  to  do !" 

"  My  duty !"  she  replied  firmly.  "  I  may  be  miser- 
able— I  shall  be  so — but  I  sliall  be  innocent — my  con- 
science will  be  light." 

"  Light  ?  Will  not  my  fate  burden  it  ?  will  not  my 
despair  blacken  it?  Will  not  your  own  grief  trouble  it? 
You  are  mad — Isola,  I  love  you!  Is  not  that  claim 
enough — does  not  your  conscience  bow  to  that  ?  Are 
you  not  mine — mine  in  heart  and  soul  ?  Have  I  not  a 
husband's  love,  and  shall  I  be  debarred  of  a  husband's 
right  ?  Isola,  I  love  you.  Can  he  say  as  much  ?  Has 
he  loved  you  so  long?  Has  he  been  tried  in  the  fire  of 
temptation  ?  Has  he  known  sickness  and  sorrow,  and 
pined  for  your  presence  as  the  healing  angel  ?  Has  he 
been  influenced  by  adulation,  intoxicated  by  vanity, 
dazzled  by  splendor,  enervated  by  luxury- — and,  after 
all,  returned  to  you  and  poverty,  content  to  pass  his 
life  by  your  side  ?  Isola,  1  love  you !  I  have  loved 
you  from  my  boyhood — I  loved  you  in  my  manhood  : 
you,  and  only  you  !  In  a  moment  of  distorted  ambition 
I  was  deluded  by  a  coquette.  She  dazzled  me,  she 
threw  a  mist  before  my  eyes,  that  hid  me  from  m)'self 
This  moment  of  delirious  error  I  have  bitterly  repented; 
I  have  wept  over  it — I  have  borne  the  stings  of  re- 
morse— but  I  have  loved  you  through  all,  and  have 
lived  but  in  the  hope  of  being  pardoned  by  you." 


THE    DREAM.  281 

Isola  continued  to  weep  in  silence;  at  length  she 
said : 

"  Percy,  I  did  not  need  your  words  to  picture  what 
iny  fiite  would  be,  away  from  you.  1  felt  it  from  the 
first,  and,  feeling  it,  resolved  to  bear  it.  I  have  borne 
misery  ere  now — worse,  indeed,  than  any  yet  in  store  for 
me — and  my  greatest  comforter  in  that  misery  was  he 
who  is  to  be  my  husband.  I  cannot  forget  his  kind- 
ness ;  I  cannot  in  wantonness  bring  sorrow  to  his  hearth, 
who  never  brought  it  to  that  of  others.  No  :  I  may 
have  to  bear  a  heavy  weight  of  suffering — I  will  i)ray  to 
God  to  give  me  strength  to  bear  it." 

'■"  And  you  sacrifice  my  happiness — sacrifice  your 
own." 

"  He  loves  me — has  no  other  thought- — no  other 
hope,  than  that  of  calling  me  his  wife." 

Ranthorpe  stamped  with  rage. 

"  Do  not  ask  me  to  commit  a  crime,''  she  continued, 
'-  for  it  would  be  one  to  wrong  //////." 

"  You  are  mad !  "  he  shrieked. 

"  No,  Percy,  I  am  miserable  !  But  God  will  sup- 
port me.  I  have  devoted  myself  to  the  happiness  of 
another;  for  that  I  live." 

Ranthor[>e  looked  at  her,  bewildered,  awed  by  her 
calmness.  That  simple  girl,  covering  a  breaking  heart 
with  an  heroic  firmness,  seemed  to  him  so  sacred  in  her 
grief,  and  in  her  virtue  so  sublime,  that  his  own  selfish 
promptings  were  silenced.  Her  deep  voice  was  unfal- 
tering—her  manner  fixedly  calm;  but  the  anguish  which 
distorted  her  haggard  face  told  terribly  of  the  struggle 
she  had  endured.  At  all  times  there  was  a  grandeur  in 
the  simplicity  and  majestic  re[)ose  of  her  manner;  but 
now,  when  the  whole  strength  of  her  nature  was  sum- 


282  RANTHORPE. 

moned  to  vanquish  the  most  fearful  struggle  that  a  lov- 
ing woman  could  endure,  she  struck  Ranthorpe  with  a 
sense  of  awe  he  could  not  overcome. 

Gazing  at  her,  he  plainly  saw  that  she  might  7'egret, 
but  would  never  waver.  Like  the  Indian  wife  about  to 
ascend  the  pyre,  and  join  her  husband  in  the  grave,  slie 
might  regret  the  sacrifice  of  this  fair  world,  but  would 
not  flinch  from  the  accomplishment  of  her  duty,  because 
duty  to  her  was  more  sacred  than  life  was  fair.  Ma- 
jestic in  her  sorrow,  as  in  her  motives,  Ranthorpe  then, 
for  the  first  dme,  felt  the  immensity  of  his  loss. 

He  took  her  hand  with  mournful  tenderness,  and 
kissing  it  with  deep  respect,  said  : 

"  Isola,  I  deserve  to  suffer — my  wickedness  has 
brought  us  to  this  strait — it  is  just  that  I  should  rue  it. 
Your  own  great  heart  dictates  to  you  this  sacrifice,  and 
what  your  heart  dictates  must  be  right.  May  it  enable 
you  to  bear  the  burden  lightly  !  Be  happy ! — I  do  not 
ssij /oi'gef  me — but  think  of  me  as  one  who  henceforth 
is  to  you  a  brother.  We  shall  meet  no  more.  But  we 
shall  be  present  to  each  other  in  thought."  His  voice 
l:)ecame  more  and  more  husky  as  he  proceeded,  but 
making  a  sudden  effort,  he  said,"  God  bless  you,  Isola, 
— God  bless  you." 

And  she  was  alone. 

Sick  at  heart  she  sank  upon  a  chair.  She  would 
have  recalled  him  and  unsaid  her  words — but  she  had 
not  strength.  A  dizzy  faintness  overcame  her:  wild, 
bewildering,  tumultuous  thoughts  oppressed  her,  and 
she  could  not  speak. 

When  Harry  came  in,  a  short  while  after,  he  found 
her  delirious.  A  brain  fever,  for  some  days,  at  least, 
kept  her  from  her  sense  of  desolation. 


WAKING    DREAMS    AND    WAKING    SADNESS.  283 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

WAKING    DREAMS    AND    WAKING    SADNESS. 

I  did  hear  yoii  talk 
Far  above  singing  !     After  you  were  gone 
I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart !  and  searcli'd 
What  stirred  it  so :  alas  !  I  found  it  love. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  :  PhUaster. 

The  sweet  thoughts,  the  sure  hopes,  thy  protested  faith  will  cause 
me  to  embrace  thy  shadow  constantly  in  mine  arms,  of  the  which  by 
strong  imagination  I  will  make  a  substance. 

Lyly  :  Alexander  and  Campaspe. 

Bello  il  tuo  manto,  o  divo  cielo  ;  e  bella 
Sei  tu,  rorida  teira.     Ahi  di  cotesta 
Infinita  belta  parte  nessuna 
Alia  misera  Saffo  i  numi  e  I'empia 
Sorte  non  fenno. 

GiACOMO  Leopardi  :  Canti. 

When  Isola  was  sufficiently  recovered,  she  told 
Harry  vaguely  of  having  seen  Ranthorpe  (which  Harry 
knew,  as  it  was  he  who  had  informed  Ranthorpe  of  her 
retreat),  and  that  they  had  "  met  for  the  last  time." 
Then  begged  him  never  to  refer  to  the  subject  again. 
From  the  manner  in  which  she  spoke,  he  was  completely 
deceived  as  to  the  nature  of  their  interview.  He  be- 
lieved that  Ranthorpe's  presence  had  only  recalled  a 
poignant  sense  of  his  treachery  ;  and  that  probably  they 
had  come  to  bitter  altercations  on  the  subject. 

But  she  seemed  shattered  by  the  blow.  She  rarely 
smiled,  and  never  laughed.  She  was  perpetually  plunged 
in  reverie,  from  which  she  aroused  herself  by  a  long  and 
l^ainful  sigh. 

Poor  Leo  was  neglected;  but  with  the  marvellous 
sagacity  which  dogs  display,  he  seemed  to  understand 


284  RANTHORPE. 

her  grief,  to  sympathize  with  it,  and  respect  it.  His  large 
eyes  were  constantly  fixed  on  her  in  mournful  loving- 
ness,  and  he  would  gently  lick  her  hand  as  if  to  reassure 
and  comfort  her;  but  she  seemed  seldom  aware  of  his 
presence. 

Harry,  deceived  by  her  words,  never  interpreted 
these  reveries  aright,  and  seldom  remarked  them.  He 
knew  that  she  was  melancholy — he  knew  her  wounds 
were  bleeding,  and  that  time  alone  could  staunch  tliem. 

She  seldom  wept,  but  the  color  never  rose  to  her 
ashen  cheek;  and  there  was  an  inward  look  about  the 
eyes  which  betokened  a  complete  withdrawal  from  the 
outward  world,  to  contemplation  of  the  inward.  She 
lived,  indeed,  no  longer  with  her  senses.  Her  days 
were  passed  in  reveries ;  her  nights  in  fantastic  dreams. 
Her  language  assumed  a  mystic  coloring;  and  her 
paintings  were  so  bizarre  that  people  complained  of  them 
as  unintelligible  and  unlike  nature. 

Unintelligible !  why  every  leaf  had  its  meaning,  every 
tint  its  feeling!  Those  flowers  that  drooped  so  pensively 
— those  weeds  so  tangled  and  torn — those  lilies  up- 
rooted and  thrown  upon  the  by-path  to  be  crushed  be- 
neath the  foot  of  the  j^asser  by — those  cottages  so  silent 
and  deserted,  with  a  lean  and  melancholy  dog  \/atching 
beside  the  door — those  scenes  of  desolation  and  violence 
— had  all  to  her  deep  meaning,  for  they  were  the  sym- 
bols of  her  sufterings,  as  she  found  them  expressed  by 
nature. 

In  the  midst  of  her  work,  she  would  often  let  her 
pencil  or  her  needle  fall,  and  with  fixed  but  vacant  eyes 
sit  speechless  for  more  than  an  hour  at  a  time,  absorbed 
in  some  painful  or  delicious  reverie.  She  was  then  with 
her  lover.     His  exquisite   face  was  upturned  to  hers ; 


WAKING    DREAMS    AND    WAKING    SADNESS,  285 

his  dreamy  eyes  were  speaking  to  her  soul  a  language 
only  intelligible  to  her ; — his  voice  whispering  in  her 
ear  the  music  of  a  lover's  flattery  and  a  lover's  hope. 
She  was  acting  again  that  blissful  dream  wherein  they 
rambled  through  the  mystic  wood.  She  spoke  to  him  ' 
— and  her  heart  framed  his  replies.  She  smiled  on 
him,  and  felt  the  wami  pressure  of  his  arm  about  her 
waist.  Thus  to  her  was  the  ideal  made  real :  she  lived 
in  dreams,  her  waking  moments  were  feverish  with  sor- 
row and  remorse. 

Little  Walter  was  forced  to  leave  England  with  his 
mother.  Isola  wept  for  him,  but  not  as  she  would  have 
wept  a  little  while  before.  She  had  almost  lost  her  con- 
sciousness of  external  things,  and  mingled  her  grief  for 
Walter  with  her  own  peculiar  sorrow. 

She  had,  in  truth,  overrated  her  strength :  she  had 
imposed  a  burden  on  herself  no  woman  can  bear.  She 
was  no  longer  in  the  same  state  of  mind  as  she  had 
been  before.  She  then  thought — believed  that  Percy 
had  ceased  to  love  her.  A  sense  of  injury  and  maidenly 
pride,  made  her  shut  her  heart  against  him;  she  noiv 
knew  not  only  that  he  loved  her  still,  but  that  she  had 
never  ceased  to  love  him  also — that  her  affection  had 
slept,  and  was  awakened  by  a  touch.  In  the  first  belief 
she  had  only  two  resources:  suicide  or  endurance;  in 
the  second,  also,  only  two :  duty  or  happiness ;  happi- 
ness purchased  by  the  sacrifice  of  duty,  duty  purchased 
by  the  sacrifice  o^" happiness.     As  Schiller  finely  says: 

"  O  wie  gross  wird  unsre  Tugend, 
Wenn  unser  Herz  bei  ihrer  Ucbung  bricht !" 

To  evils,  when  there  is  no  remedy,  we  make  up  our 
minds :  we  are  not  every  moment  irritated  by  hope  de- 


1286  RANTHORPE. 

feried.  It  is  when  the  remedy  is  possible,  yet  does  not 
come, — it  is  when  hope  is  strong,  but  never  is  fulfilled, — 
that  the  mind  is  racked  with  agonies  of  suffering.  Put 
a  bird  into  a  cage,  and  (having  tried  all  its  fastenings 
and  seen  escape  to  be  impossible)  it  will  chirrup  with 
content,  and  take  its  daily  food  in  peace ;  but  tie  that 
bird's  leg  by  a  string,  and  it  will  flutter  to  be  free ;  re- 
fuse all  food ;  all  consolation ;  and  break  its  yearning 
heart.  The  bright  heaven  and  the  free  air  are  above 
and  around  it,  inviting  it ;  one  petty  barrier  alone  pre- 
vents its  springing  into  the  air.  It  feels  the  power  to 
fly — it  rises  and  flies — to  the  length  of  the  string  !  This 
constant  endeavor,  and  this  constant  failure,  is  the 
misery.  Affliction  may  be  borne ;  but  it  must  be  irre- 
mediable, before  it  can  be  borne  with  patience. 

Isola  was  fast  sinking  under  this  wearing  struggle  of 
her  conscience  with  her  instincts;  and  even  Harr)-  at 
last  remarked  that  some  secret  sorrow  was  consuming 
her.  He  could  not  believe  it  to  be  grief  for  Walter's 
loss — could  it  be  for  Percy's  loss  ? 

One  evening  as  he  passed  beneath  her  window,  he 
heard  her  singing.  The  pathos  'of  her  voice  arrested 
him,  and  the  tears  rose  to  his  eyes,  as  he  distinctly 
caught  this  verse 

"  A  present  a  peine  j 'endure 

Ce  qui  me  charmait  autrefois  ; 

Du  ruisseau  je  fuis  le  niurmure  ; 

Je  Grains  I'ombre  triste  des  bois  ; 

Je  niaudis  I'epine  piquante 

Du  rosier  que  ma  main  planta  ; 

Tout  m'importune,  tout  me  tormente — 

Rien  ne  me  plait — il  ne'st  plus  la !" 

Her  voice  was  broken  by  her  sobs  as  she  reached 
the  last  line ;  and  he  moved  away  dizzy  with  the  horri- 
ble thoughts  that  crowded  on  his  brain. 


THE    SACRIFICE.  287 


CHAPTER     IX. 

THE    SACRIFICE. 

Oh  je  t'ai  aimee,  simple  fleur  que  le  vent  brisait  sur  sa  tige,  pour 
ta  beaute  delicate  ct  pure,  et  je  t'ai  cueillie  esperant  garder  pour  moi 
ton  suave  parfum,  qui  s'exhalait  h.  I'ombre  et  dans  la  solitude.  Mais 
la  brise  me  I'a  emporte  en  passant,  et  ton  sein  n'a  pu  le  retenir  ! 
Est-ce  une  raison  pour  que  je  te  haisse  et  te  foule  aux  pieds  ?  Non  ! 
je  te  reposerai  doucement  dans  la  rosee  ou  je  t'ai  prise,  et  je_  te  dirai 
adieu,  parceque  mon  souffle  ne  pent  plus  te  faire  vivre,  et  qu'il  en  est 
un  autre  dans  ton  atmosphere  qui  doit  te  relever  et  te  ranimer.  Re- 
tleuris  done,  6  mon  beau  lis  !  je  ne  te  toucherais  plus  ! 

George  Sand. 

Harry  from  this  time  suffered  all  the  miseries  of 
doubt  and  dread.  He  began  by  suspecting  that,  in 
spite  of  her  assertions,  Percy  really  had  her  heart.  He 
watched  her  narrowly.  He  scrutinized  the  events  which 
had  occurred — her  wrong — her  second  betrothment — 
her  meeting  with  her  first  love — her  subsequent  sorrow. 

"She  loves  him! — Yes — yet  she  would  spare  me  1 
Yes,  that  must  be  the  cause  of  her  grief  Oh,  God ! 
what  a  thought;  to  owe  her  to  a  sense  of  duty — pity!" 

Men  are  rarely  moved  to  tears;  and  /lis  grief  was 
too  dull  and  stupifying  to  find  relief  in  tears.  But  he 
walked  up  and  down  his  room  like  a  criminal  awaiting 
execution,  who  knows  his  doom  is  inevitable,  and  yet 
cannot  believe  that  he  must  die. 

A  terrible  struggle  took  place  in  his  breast.  But  it 
ended  in  virtue  subduing  instinct.  He  resolved  to 
relinquish  his  claim,  and  purchase  her  happiness  at  the 
sacrifice  of  his  own. 

But  he  found  it  im^DOSsible  to  speak  on  the  subject 


288  RANTHORPE. 

with  Isola.  Whenever  he  alluded  to  her  melancholy, 
she  asked  him  if  she  had  not  cause?  Whenever  he 
approached  the  name  of  Percy,  she  put  her  finger  on 
his  lips.  By  the  sudden  shiver  that  ran  over  her  frame 
when  it  was  alluded  to,  Harry  saw  how  full  of  anguish 
the  subject  was;  and  at  times  doubted  whether  she 
really  did  love  Percy. 

In  this  state  of  fluctuation  he  remained  until  the 
event  recorded  in  the  last  chapter  brought  things  to  a 
crisis.  From  a  narrow  scrutiny  of  her  countenance  and 
manner,  he  divined  pretty  well  the  history  of  her  grief. 
Unable  longer  to  doubt,  he  was  resolved  to  act. 

After  quitting  Isola  on  that  memorable  day,  Ran- 
thorpe  returned  home  broken-spirited.  He  could  no 
longer  work — he  had  no  object.  What  was  popularity 
to  him?     Noise,  mere  noise! 

And  yet  so  little  is  a  poet  master  of  his  own  facul- 
ties, so  little  can  he  resolve  to  write  or  to  be  silent,  that 
Percy,  convinced  of  the  notliingness  of  popularity, 
feeling  that  he  had  no  object  in  life  which  should  make 
him  court  the  suffrages  of  the  world,  nevertheless  was 
soon  afterwards  enthusiastically  pursuing  the  plans  of  a 
new  work,  with  the  same  eagerness,  the  same  delight, 
as  if  his  existence  depended  upon  its  success. 

He  was  one  day  sittitng  in  his  st^idy  with  Wynton, 
fondly  detailing  to  his  faithful  friend  the  nature  of  the 
work  upon  which  he  was  then  engaged,  when  Harry 
walked  into  the  room.  Percy  rose  surprised;  and  an- 
swering the  frank  gesture  of  Harry's  out-stretched  hand 
by  a  cold  bow,  motioned  him  to  a  chair.  Harry  under- 
stood the  reception  from  a  rival ;  but  he  w^as  sorely  hurt 
at  it  nevertheless. 

Ranthorpe  was  determined  that  his  visitor  should 


THK     SACRIFICE.  289 

begin  the  conversation.  Wynton  looked  on  in  uneasy 
amazement,  and  knew  not  what  to  conclude  from 
Harry's  altered  appearance;  for  his  cheeks  were  burning 
with  a  hectic  glow,  and  his  eyes  had  a  strange  wildness 
in  them  Wynton  had  never  seen  before. 

After  a  few  minutes  of  this  chilling  silence,  Harry 
said : 

"  Can  I  speak  with  you  alone  ?" 

Wynton  rose;  but  Ranthorpe  checked  him,  saying: 

"Don't  stir;  there  is  nothing  Mr.  Cavendish  can 
say  to  me  that  you  may  not  hear." 

Then  turning  to  Harry  with  exasperating  coolness: 

"You  were  about  to  observe — " 

"What  I  have  to  say  is  entirely  a  private  matter." 

"  You  must  excuse  me  then  if  I  decline  attending  to 
it." 

"Percy,"  said  Wynton,  "I  ?niist  go;  my  presence  is 
positively  indelicate." 

"  Your  presence  is  indispensable,  I  wish  to  have 
some  one  by  my  side  who  will  be  some  restraint  upon 
me." 

Harry  was  galled;  he  knew  not  what  to  say,  or 
what  course  to  take. 

"  Percy  !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  My  name  is  Ranthorpe,  sir." 

"You  shall  not  irritate  me,  do  what  you  will.  I 
came  to  speak  with  you  about  Isola — now  will  you 
listen?" 

"Nothing  you  can  say  to  me  respecting  Miss 
Churchill  can  have  any  interest  for  me,"  replied  Ran- 
thorpe, the  beating  of  his  pulse  belying  the  coldness  of 
his  manner. 

A  thought  flashed  across  Harry's  mind,  that  possibly 
19 


290  RANTHORPE. 

he  had  been  mistaken  with  respect  to  Isola's  grief — per- 
haps Percy  did  not  love  her  after  all. 

He  started  up,  and  hurriedly  saying,  "  Good  day," 
left  the  room. 

"  How  could  you  treat  him  so,  Percy  ?*'  said  Wynton. 

"I  hate  him!" 

"Your  old  friend?" 

"  My  rival.  My  ungenerous  rival.  He  knows — he 
must  know  Isola  loved  me;  yet  he  has  her  word— she 
is  engaged  to  him — and — " 

Here  the  door  opened,  and  they  both  started  as 
Harry  again  appeared  before  them. 

"I  will  not  be  frustrated,"  he  said,  "I  will  learn  the 
truth.  Since  I  must  speak  before  Wynton,  I  here 
solemnly  ask  you  if  you  still  love  Isola?  Your  answer 
I  can  read  in  your  face.  As  you  value  her  happiness 
and  your  own  I  charge  you,  tell  me  whether  at  your 
last  meeting  you  talked  witli  her  of  your  love;  and 
whether  she  told  you  of  her  engagement." 

Ranthorpe  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  with  intense 
.scorn,  answered:  "Jealousy  has  many  ingenious  devices 
— could  you  not  hit  upon  one  which  would  answer  your 
purpose  quite  as  well,  and  not  be  quite  so  insolent." 

"Jealousy?"  echoed  Harry,  while  a  bitter  smile 
faded  on  his  lip. 

"  Rivals,"  added  Ranthorpe  with  increasing  scorn, 
"  are  usually  defied,  not  interrogated !" 

"Percy,  Percy,  have  you  not  nobility  enough  at 
heart  to  understand  me?  Cease  that  scorn — do  not 
make  me  forget  myself!  I  am  not  jealous.  Jealous, 
indeed ! — Well,  well  ! — I  ask  you  whether  you  spoke  of 
love  to  lier,  and  whether  she  rejected  you  because  she 
was  affianced  to  another.      \  feci  she  did;  but  I  ask  you 


RECONCILIATION.  29 1 

that  I  may  be  sure  that  when  I  yield  up  my  claim  to  be 
her  husband,  I  am  acting  uprightly.  You  stare.  You 
look  incredulous? — Why,  man,  I  love  her — love  her 
better  than  myself!  Now  do  you  understand  me?  I, 
who  would  die  for  her,  shall  I  do  her  an  irreparable 
wrong?  I,  who  worship  her,  shall  I  permit  her  to  waste 
her  life  on  me,  she  loving  another?  No,  no,  no!  Tell 
me  that  she  rejected  you,  because  her  word  was 
pledged  to  me — and  she  is  yours!  Now  do  you  under- 
stand me?" 

Ranthorpe  gazed  at  him  for  a  few  seconds  as  if 
bewildered.  Then  recovering  himself  he  walked  up  to 
him,  holding  out  his  hand  in  silence.  In  silence  it  was 
taken,  and  one  long  significant  pressure  was  all  these 
two  bruised  hearts  could  find  to  express  their  emotions. 


CHAPTER     X. 

RECONCILIATION. 

Alii,  el  silencio  de  la  noche  fria, 
El  jasmin  que  en  las  redes  se  enlazaba, 
El  crista!  de  la  fuente,  que  corria, 
El  arroyo,  que  a  solas  murmuraba, 
El  viento,  que  en  las  hojas  se  movia, 
El  aura,  que  en  las  floras  respiraba 
Todo  era  amor. 

Caldfjron  :   Cisma  de  Inglaterra. 

Que  causa  puede  haber  sido 
La  que  Uego  a  separar 
Dos  corazones  tan  finos  ? 

MORATIN. 

On  that  wedding-day  which  had  so  strangely  been 
fixed  upon  by  Harry  as  the  day  which  should  witness 
his   sacrifice;    on' that    wedding-day    which    had    ap- 


293  RANTHORPE. 

proached  witliout  either  Isola  or  her  betrothed  being 
aware  of  it,  so  little  had  their  thoughts  for  some  weeks 
been  fixed  upon  marriage ;  on  that  day  Isola  had  been 
deeply  engaged  with  a  drawing  of  more  than  usual  mys- 
ticism. It  was  wild  as  a  Salvator,  tender  as  a  Claude. 
It  was  a  mere  nothing — and  yet  every  thing — a 
"  study,"  and  yet  full  of  meaning.  To  ordinary  eyes  it 
was  but  a  rocky  pass,  with  trees,  flowers,  weeds,  and 
fragments  of  fallen  stone,  all  in  inextricable  confusion. 
But  as  you  looked  closer  its  meaning  gradually  unfolded 
itself  There  was  desolation  in  those  blasted  jagged 
crags  around  which  grew  such  luxuriant  vegetation ;  in 
the  sombre  blackness  of  the  earth,  from  which  the  lush 
weeds  grew — the  weeds  themselves  confused  and  suffer- 
ing, entangled,  bent  and  broken — tortured  by  over- 
growth, yet  full  of  beauty;  there  was  desolation  in  the 
booming,  roaring,  flashing  water-fall,  writhing  and  his- 
sing from  a  melancholy  cleft;  in  the  trunks  of  ancient 
trees  twisted  into  fantastic  shapes,  branchless,  hollow, 
scathed  with  lightning.  And  above  all  was  the  calm 
blue  heaven,  cloudless  and  windless,  a  solemn  mockery 
of  the  desolation  upon  earth.  There  was  a  sombre 
irony  in  the  picture.  It  showed  the  hideous  skeleton 
beneath  the  mask  of  life.  It  was  the  symbolized  sad- 
ness of  one  who  had  peered  too  curiously  into  the 
depths  of  her  own  heart. 

And  yet  this  bitter  mockery  of  life — this  ghasdy 
analysis  of  irony,  which  displayed  the  skeleton  beneath 
the  beauteous  form — this  consciousness  of  her  wound 
and  scornful  laying  of  it  open,  was  not  without  its  fas- 
cination to  the  artist.  There  is  a  dalliance  with  misery, 
which  has  its  voluptuous  orgies,  powerful  as  those  of  the 
senses.     There  is  a  passion  for  rising  above  sorrow,  and 


RECONCILIATION.  293 

looking  down  upon  it  in  painful  scorn;  playing  with  it, 
smiling  at  it — smiling  amidst  tears. 

In  this  mood  Isola  touched  and  retouched  her  pict- 
ure. Her  brush  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  quit  her 
hand;  each  stroke  served  only  to  bring  out  more  fully 
the  contrast  of  life  and  death — ^beauty  and  deformity — 
enjoyment  and  torture — contained  in  her  conception. 
No  clump  of  moss  but  had  its  meaning;  no  blade  of 
grass  rose  higher  than  its  neighbors  without  some  iron- 
ical intention.  The  very  masses  of  rock  which  encum- 
bered the  valley  bore  in  one  way  or  another  the  impress 
of  this  irony;  here,  one  fragment  was  richly  covered 
with  lichens,  while  its  side,  partly  exposed,  was  black 
and  scathed ;  there,  another  fragment,  rugged  and 
barren,  had  green  and  speckled  lizards  crowding  from 
its  fissures. 

In  the  evening  Harry  came  and  found  her  still  oc- 
cupied with  her  picture.  She  was  greatly  excited,  and 
talked  of  little  but  of  Art. 

"Art  enshrines  the  great  sadness  of  the  world,"  she 
said;  "it  purifies,  elevates,  incarnates  sadness  in  beauty, 
and  thus  preserves  it.  Without  Art  man  would  forget 
the  sufferings  which  humanity  has  endured.  Suffering, 
being  disorder,  is  perishable;  yet  it  does  not  deserve 
wholly  to  perish,  and  Art  enshrines  it." 

"  Should  we  not  rather  wish  it  to  perish  ?"  said 
he. 

"No;  we  need  it  constantly  with  us,  to  teach  us 
charity — we  need  it  to  teach  us  fortitude.  I  should  go 
mad,  if  I  could  not  read  in  the  pictures,  poems,  and 
melodies  of  great  artists  all  that  I  endure!  I  see  they 
have  endured  them,  and  yet  lived  on.  I  trace  the  sad- 
ness of  the  artist  in  his  lines,  or  in  his  faltering  rhythm. 


294  RANTHOP.PE. 

1  see  his  sadness  underneath  tlie  gaiety  witli  which  he- 
strives  to  mask  it." 

"Does  not  this  depend  rather  upon  your  mood,  than 
upon  their  meaning?" 

*'No:  sadness  is  everywhere  written  on  their  works 
as  it  was  engraven  on  their  hearts.  What  sorrow  is 
imphed  in  the  ever-present  irony  of  Shakspearel  What 
sorrow  renders  touching  the  measured  statehness  of 
Milton!  Then  think  of  Dante,  grim  with  a  thousand 
woes!  Think  of  the  pensive  sadness  of  Raphael,  the 
austerity  of  Fra  Bartolomeo,  the  irony  of  Albert  Diirer! 
And  oh!  the  infinity  of  sorrow  in  the  works  of  Beet- 
hoven: piercing,  plaintive,  exquisite,  unalterable!  It  is 
no  common  spirit,  struggling  with  no  common  pain, 
which  pierces  his  melodies  with  such  plaints  of  woe! 
And  then  Mozart — what  quiet  pathos  amidst  his  smiles 
— what  settled  melancholy  diffused  through  all  his 
beauty." 

There  was  a  pause.  Her  brush  again  struck  out  a 
few  significant  tints.     She  set  it  down  again,  and  said: 

"It  is  in  Art  that  I  commune  with  those  subtler  por- 
tions of  experience  which  words  have  no  power  to 
express.  Art  gives  enduring  form  to  the  supersensuous 
in  life.  It  gathers  to  its  bosom  all  the  sufferings  of 
Humanity,  soothes  them,  embalms  them,  and  thus  be- 
comes an  everlasting  monument  of  human  experience." 

She  stopped,  but  her  lips  continued  to  move,  as  if 
endeavoring  to  speak.  She  rose  and  walked  to  the 
window,  and  threw  it  open.  The  moon  was  hidden 
behind  a  cloud,  and  the  foliage  which  spread  before  her 
window,  was  dark  as  night;  nothing  but  an  indistin- 
guishable mass  of  foHage  met  her  gaze.  The  sweet 
scent  of  flowers  entering  at  the  window,  had  a  peculiar 


RECONCILIATION.  295 

effect  upon  her  nerves,  and  awakened  strange  associa- 
tions. 

All  was  so  calm,  nothing  interrupted  the  current  of 
her  thoughts. 

Harry  watched  her  in  silence;  listened  to  her  gentle 
breathing;  watched  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  exquisite 
bosom  as  it  panted  beneath  her  dress;  and  puzzled  him- 
self as  to  how  he  should  break  to  her  his  resolution. 

While  she  stood  there  wrapt  in  tliought,  the  moon 
slowly  emerged  from  the  cloud,  and  streamed  upon  her. 
She  was  thinking  of  Percy,  when  a  rapid  association 
carried  her  back  in  thought  to  that  evening  when, 
standing  at  the  same  window,  and  under  the  same 
moon,  she  plighted  her  vow  to  Harry.  And  this  was 
its  anniversary. 

''Come  here,  dear  one,"  she  said. 

He  rose,  approached,  and  took  the  hand  she  held 
out  to  him. 

'•Have  you  forgotten  this  day?"  she  asked.  "It 
was  to  be  our  wedding-day." 

A  strange  and  sickly  smile  passed  over  his  face. 

"You  do  not  answer  me." 

"Isola,  dearest  Isola,  forget  that  evening." 

She  started,  and  looked  eagerly  at  him. 

"You  promised  me  a  widowed  heart. — I  should 
have  been  the  happiest  of  men! — but  your  heart  was 
not  widowed  I — I — don't  heed  these  tears — Im  agi- 
tated. Well. — In  a  word,  1  forego  my  claim! — I  ask 
no  fulfilment  of  a  vow — how  could  I  ask  it — rashly 
made,  and  bitterly  repented.  You  love  Percy  Ranthorpe 
— he  loves  you.  Be  happy  with  him — it  is  all  I  wish. 
Let  me  be  your  friend — a  brother  whom  you  love.  All 
I  think  of,  all  1  care  for,  is  to  see  you  happy." 


296  KANTHORPE. 

She  stared  at  him  with  vacant  eyes,  as  one  who 
rather  felt  than  comprehended  his  meaning.  Speech- 
less and  motionless  for  a  few  moments,  she  then  touched 
his  forehead  with  her  cold  and  quivering  lips,  mur- 
muring: 

*'You  humihate  me — 1  am  very  wicked!" 

"You  are  an  angel,  whom  I  love  too  well  to  see 
unhappy." 

"I  did  not  think,"  she  sobbed,  ''that  I  should  ever 
give  pain  to  one  who  has  been  to  me  what  you  have 
been." 

"Isola,  Isola,  let  me  have  my  reward;  ^et  me  see 
you  happy!" 

She  raised  her  tearful  eyes  to  him,  and  after  one 
long  look  of  unutterable  gratitude,  gave  vent  to  her 
tears. 

Slie  wept  over  the  duty  she  was  sacrificing  to  love; 
he  wept  over  the  love  he  was  sacrificing  to  duty. 

A  carriage  drove  up,  and  put  an  end  to  this  painful 
scene.  Fanny  Wilmington  stepped  out,  and  was  soon 
beside  her  friend;  and  soon  made  confidante  of  what 
liad  taken  place.  Why  did  she  suddenly  feel  so  elated? 
and  why  did  she  gaze  at  Harry  with  such  intense 
fervor  ?  and  why  was  she  so  eloquent  in  his  praise  ? 
She  knew  not;  all  she  knew  was  that  the  communica- 
tion just  made  seemed  to  remove  a  load  from  oflf  her 
heart.  And  it  was  with  a  strange  flutter  that  she  ac- 
cepted his  invitation  to  take  a  turn  in  the  garden  with 
him,  so  as  to  leave  Isola  with  Percy,  Avhose  knock  then 
announced  him. 

Over  the  meeting  of  the  lovers  I  draw  a  veil.  The 
burst  of  rapture  with  which  they  clasped  each  other  in 
a  wild  embrace — the  many  inquiries — the  fond  regrets 


LOVE    IS    BLIND  ;    COUCH    NOT    HIS    EYES.  297 

and  tluilling  liopes — it  is  out  of  my  pov/er  to  convey. 
Let  me,  therefore,  leave  them  to  their  happiness. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

LOVE  IS  blind;    couch  not  his  eyes. 


There  are  a  sort  of  spirits  fall  but  once. 
But  that  once  is  perdition. 

Per  me  si  va  nella  citt5,  dolente  ; 
Per  me  si  va  neli'  eterno  dolore  ; 
Per  me  si  va  tra  la  perduta  gente. 


GUIDONE. 


Dante, 


O  God !  O  God  !  that  it  were  possible 
To  undo  things  done  ;  to  call  back  yesterday! 
That  time  could  turn  up  his  swift  sandy  glass, 
To  untell  the  days,  and  to  redeem  these  hours ! 

Heywood  :    lVo7nan  killed  with  kindness. 

Having  thus  seen  Ranthorpe's  battered  boat  at 
length  put  into  port;  let  us  see  what  fate  awaits  Flor- 
ence Hawbucke,  whom  we  left  battling  with  the  waves. 

Florence  was  in  love;  and  her  husband  had  no  sus- 
picion of  it!  His  jealousy  had  indeed  somewhat 
abated,  but  its  embers  were  still  burning.  What  made 
him  blind  to  Florence's  love  was  the  absurdly  mistaken 
notion  he  had  formed  of  her.  He  thought  her  frivo- 
lous, and  that,  therefore^  she  would  only  love  a  frivolous 
man:  strange  error!  He  knew  her  first  complaint 
against  him  had  been  his  want  of  loveliness,  and  imag- 
ined that  she  would  only  love  some  gay  and  lively  man 
who  could  amuse  her.  This,  which  at  no  time  would' 
have  been  true,  was  singularly  false  under  present  cir- 
r.umstances. 

Florence  wa-s  wretched,  and  needed  sympathy,  not 


290  RANTHORPE. 

liveliness.  Shakspeare,  who  has  sounded  every  note  of 
human  feeHng,  has  not  left  this  one  untouched.  The 
officious  waiting-woman  would  charm  a  queenly  sorrow 
with  music,  but  the  sufferer  replies : 

"  Thou  shouldst  please  me  better  wouldst  thou  weep." 

Song  may  distract  the  gay,  or  lay  its  heavy  burden 
of  delicious  pain  upon  the  spirits  of  the  happy:  but 
grief  demands  sympathy — tears  seek  for  tears — and  sor- 
rows love  to  josde  with  sorrows  greater  than  themselves, 
to  learn,  in  the  contact,  humility  and  comfort. 

While,  therefore,  her  husband  would  assuredly  have 
shot  the  first  hvely  young  man  who  had  the  bad  fortune 
of  attracting  much  of  Florence's  attention,  he  witnes.sed 
without  the  shadow  of  a  suspicion  the  intimacy  growing 
between  her  and  Bourne.  The  melancholy  and  unsuc- 
cessful dramatist,  whose  plays  Sir  Frederick  had  read 
with  merited  contempt,  was,  however,  the  only  really 
dangerous  rival  admitted  to  Florence's  intimacy.  Sir 
Frederick  had  too  profound  a  contempt  for  him  to  fear 
him.  Besides,  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  a  heavy 
melancholy  man  could  interest  the  frivolous  Florence. 
But  that  melancholy  man  interested  the  luretched  Flo- 
rence ! 

Bourne  was  naturally  of  a  bilious  temperament;  and 
continued  ill-success,  acting  upon  an  idolatry  of  Byron, 
had  fostered  in  him  a  very  respectable  amount  of  mis- 
anthropy. He  was  intensely  vain;  and  was  incessantly 
endeavoring  to  assume  some  imposing  attitude  before 
the  world.  As  an  orator,  a  legislator,  and  a  poet,  he 
had  ludicrously  failed.  As  a  misanthrope  he  had  gained 
tolerable  success  in  society:  for  people  avoided  him 
with  unfeigned  alacrity. 

Florence  was  attracted  to  him  bv  his  sorrows.    Thev 


LOVE  IS  blind;  couch  not  his  eyes.        299 

spoke  vaguely  of  woes  which  had,  in  both  their  cases, 
embittered  an  ardent  youth — of  deceptions  which  had 
blighted  a  believing  heart.  They  were  eloquent  in 
scorn  of  the  pretended  force  of  love.  In  this  Florence 
was  serious,  Bourne  acting.  Strange  that  this  actress 
should  in  turn  become  a  dupe! 

Bourne,  gratified  at  so  credulous  a  listener,  made  up 
a  history  of  his  life,  smacking  gready  of  the  circulating 
library,  but  avidly  listened  to  and  believed  by  Florence. 
He  had  at  first  no  motive  in  this  beyond  the  mere  de- 
light of  making  himself  the  hero  of  a  fictitious  narrative 
— of  placing  himself  in  an  effecdve  attitude.  But  when 
she  confided  to  him  her  histor}-, — when-  he  had  slied 
tears  with  her  over  that  confidence, — new  thoughts, 
wild  and  turbulent,  hurried  across  his  mind.  He  felt 
that  when  man  and  woman  exchange  confidences,  there 
is  but  one  step  more  for  them  to  take;  and  that  is.  to 
exchange  vows, 

Florence,  as  I  have  more  than  once  intimated,  was 
not  possessed  of  much  heart.  She  had  more  sensibility 
than  depth  of  feeling.  Her  nervous  temperament  a:nd 
her  education  together  had  made  her  somewhat  roman- 
tic— that  is  to  say,  avid  of  emotions;  but  hers  was  not 
a  loving  nature.  She  loved  with  her  head  more  than 
with  her  heart.  And  it  was  owing  precisely  to  this  dis- 
tinction that  she  was  led  away  by  the  vulgar  acting  of 
Bourne.  Her  imagination  was  inflamed.  She  seemed 
in  his  history  to  have  read  the  narrative  of  a  life  which 
she  was  made  to  render  glorious  and  happy.  Bourne 
was  the  loving,  sensitive,  suffering  heart,  she  had  been 
seeking  all  her  life.  With  him  she  would  fly  away  from 
the  odious  tyranny  of  her  cold-hearted  husband.  She 
but  awaited  Bourne's  avowal. 


300  RANTHORPE. 

That  avowal  was  made  one  night  at  a  ball.  Bourne, 
who  was  a  great  coward,  approached  the  subject  in  the 
most  guarded  manner;  but  her  encouragement  soon 
dispelled  his  fears.  He  returned  home  that  night  in  an 
intoxication  of  vanity  he  had  never  known  before. 
She  loved  him!  She  was  his!  The  beautiful  and  ad- 
mired Lady  Hawbucke,  his! 

He  could  not  sleep  that  night.  Nor  could  she:  but 
for  a  different  reason.  The  crime  she  was  about  to 
commit — and  fears  of  her  husband's  vengeance — tor- 
tured her  all  night.  Often  did  she  resolve  to  write  to 
Bourne  entreating  him  to  think  no  more  of  her;  or 
thought  of  quitting  London,  and  giving  him  no  clue. 
But  the  uselessness  of  these  steps  soon  occurred  to  her; 
die  terrible  figure  of  her  husband  was  ever  before  her, 
and  the  prospect  of  escaping  from  him  was  too  tempt- 
ing. 

A  prey  to  contending  emotions,  she  lay  shivering  in 
her  bed,  uncertain  how  to  act,  yet  feeling  that  some 
dread  fatality  urged  Jier  to  ruin. 

Bourne  got  up  next  morning  in  a  state  of  smihng 
complacency.  He  sat  down  to  breakfast,  smiling;  he 
broke  the  eggs,  smiling;  he  buttered  slips  of  toast, 
smiling;  he  opened  the  newspaper,  smiling;  and  failing 
in  an  attempt  to  read  it,  threw  it  on  the  sofa  and  poked 
the  fire — still  smiling. 

Breakfast  finished,  he  drew  his  chair  in  front  of  the 
fire,  and  placing  his  slippered  feet  upon  the  fender, 
commenced  a  mechanical  poking  of  the  fire — serenely 
smiling  all  the  time.  Now  was  the  poker  suspended  in 
the  air  as  if  the  blow  was  intercepted  by  a  thought. 
Now  was  it  thrust  with  vigor  into  the  centre  of  some 
glittering  lumps  of  coal.     Now  it  rested  in  the  fire  till  it 


LOVE    IS    BLIND;    CXDUCH    NOT    HIS    EYES  3GI 

became  red  hot.  Now  it  rested  on  the  hob  to  cool,  and 
Bourne  regarded  it  with  an  indefinite  smile. 

He  was  chuckling  over  the  success  of  his  acting, 
and  framing  plans  of  future  delight.  He  was  picturing 
to  himself  her  tenderness  and  jealousy — who  can  wonder 
that  he  smiled  ? 

But  this  self-gratulation  was  not  of  long  duration, 
for  in  the  midst  of  his  smiles,  he  was  startled  by  the 
appearance  of  his  victim.  Florence,  pale  with  fatigue, 
teiTor,  and  the  emotions  of  last  night,  stood  before 
him. 

"  Good  God !"  he  exclaimed,  letting  the  poker  drop, 
but  never  rising  from  his  seat. 

She  rushed  into  his  embrace. 

*'  You  are  surprised,  Henry  ?"  she  said,  throwing  her 
arms  round  him.  "  Did  you  fancy,  then,  that  I  could 
keep  you  in  suspense  ?  Did  you  think  me  coquette 
enough  to  enjoy  your  torture  ?" 

He  wished  from  his  heart  she  /lad  he^n  that  coquette; 
but  he  remained  silent. 

"  Why,  Henry,"  she  resumed,  "  you  do  not  speak  to 
me ;  you  do'  not  even  kiss  me !  One  would  say  that 
you  were  not  glad  to  see  me !" 

*'  To  confess  the  truth,"  he  repHed,  "  1  would  rather 
have  seen  you  at  your  own  house.  You  have  been  verv 
imprudent.     You  may  be  seen — recognized." 

"  Well !"  exclaimed  the  astonished  woman. 

"  We  should  both  be  lost.  You  must  be  mad  to 
brave  the  danger." 

Florence  looked  at  hini  steadily;  his  eye  shifted 
from  her  scrutiny,  and  her  face  contracted  with  agony. 

**  Do  you  not  love  me  ?"  she  said,  coldly. 

"I    do — I    do,"    replied    he,   rising;    "believe   me, 


3©  2  RANTHORPE. 

dearest  Florence,  it  is  my  love  that  dictates  this  pru- 
dence. 1  tremble  for  you  every  instant  you  are  here; 
suppose  any  one  should  call  ?" 

Without  ansv/ering,  she  rang  the  bell. 

''  Mr.  Bourne  is  at  home  to  no  one''  she  said,  to  the 
servant  who  entered. 

'•  Now,  then,  your  fears  are  at  rest." 

'•  You  will  drive  me  mad  !"  he  exclaimed,  pacing  the 
room  with  restless  agitation.  "  How  can  you  be  so  im- 
prudent !" 

The  coward  heart  of  the  man  was  crushed  by  this 
event !  He  had  calculated  on  a  quiet  intrigue ;  but  the 
recklessness  of  this  first  imprudence  awakened  bitter 
fears  for  the  future.  If  the  present  visit  should  pass  un- 
noticed, yet  he  could  not  hope  that  the  succeeding  visits 
would  be  equally  fortunate ;  and  then  the  husband, 
publicly  outraged,  would  avenge  his  dishonor !  This 
idea  distracted  him;  it  poisoned  all  his  feeHngs;  it 
ruined  all  his  hopes.  He  bitterly  cursed  himself  for 
having  chosen  so  violent  a  woman;  and  vowed  to  leave 
London  the  next  day,  and  to  escape  the  consequences 
of  an  intrigue  with  her. 

She  watched  him  for  some  time  in  silence;  at  length 
she  said  ; 

"  Henry,  did  you  not  bid  me  come  ?" 

"  I  ?"  exclaimed  Bourne,  amazed. 

"  Yes,  you.  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  you  loved 
me  ?  Did  you  not  curse  the  fate  that  separated  us  ? 
Did  you  not  say  how  sweet  it  would  have  been  to  pass 
your  days  for  ever  at  my  side  ?  Did  you  not  swear, 
that  should  I  be  a  widow,  your  hand  was  ready  to  con- 
firm your  oaths  ?" 

These  were  so  manv  thrusts  of  a  knife  into  his  breast. 


LOVE    IS    BLIND  ;    COUCH    NOT    HIS    EVES.  303 

This  rapid  turning  upon  him  of  oaths,  sworn  in  the  heat 
of  successful  acting,  was  overwhehning. 

"  Did  you  not  say  this  ?"  she  repeated,  vehemently. 

"  I  did  !— I  did  !     I  say  so  still." 

"  Then  be  happy — I  am  a  widow  .'" 

"  Great  God !"  said  he,  thunderstruck.  "  Is  he — is 
he  dead?''  he  faltered,  overcome  with  the  terrible  idea 
which  had  entered  his  head  that  she  had  murdered  him. 

'•  No,  Henry,  not  dead.  But  I  am  a  widow;  I  am 
no  longer  a  wife ;  I  have  left  him  ;  I  have  dishonored 
him;  I  have  broken  my  vows — I  have  ceased  to  be  his 
wife,  to  become  your  mistress  !" 

He  sank  upon  the  sofa,  prostrated  with  terror.  Then 
suddenly  springing  up,  he  exclaimed : 

"  It  is  not  too  late;  your  absence  will  not  have  been 
remarked;  you  have  been  shopping  —  visiting  —  any 
thing.  Fly.  fly — go  home.  I  will  see  you  this  evening. 
Quick  !  quick  ! — home  !" 

"  Home  ?  I  have  none,  but  beneath  your  roof  I 
have  left  my  husband  for  ever.  By  this  time  he  knows 
it." 

Bourne's  face  became  livid  with  horror,  as  she  pro- 
nounced these  words,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  he  could 
articulate. 

"  He — knows — it  I" 

"  Why  are  you  so  agitated  ?"  she  asked,  wonder- 
ingly.     "  Did  you  not  expect  me  ?" 

A  savage  smile  played  upon  his  lips,  as  he  mur- 
mured, "  Expect  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  expect  me  !  You  swore  you  loved  me.  Did 
you  suppose  that  I  could  listen  to  your  vows,  and  re- 
main with  my  husband  ?     Did  you  suppose — " 

"  Oh  !  how  could   I   suppose  you  mad !"  he  inter- 


304  KANTHOkFli:. 

rupted — "  liow  could  I  suppose  tliat  you  would  fly  in 
the  face  of  the  world,  and  ruin  yourself  and  me,  and 
dishonor  your  husband  by  a  mad  revolt  ?  How  could 
I  suppose  you  would  have  acted  differently  from  other 
women,  and  drag  down  unnecessary  ruin  on  us  both  ?" 

"  Would  you  then  have  waited  till  he  discovered  our 
love  ?  You  know  him — you  know  what  the  conse- 
quences would  have  been.  He  who  killed  an  innocent 
man  on  mere  suspicion  !" 

Bourne  shuddered. 

"I  have  written  to  him,"  continued  Florence,  "to 
say  that  I  have  left  his  roof  for  ever,  and  that  in  America 
I  hope  to  find  a  home." 

"  He  will  not  believe  it — he  will  discover  all.  Ht 
will  not  rest.     Oh  God!  what  a  fool!  what  a  fool!" 

He  beat  his  hand  against  his  forehead  as  he  said 
this. 

She  bui-st  into  tears.  He  paced  up  and  down  the 
room,  fear  and  remoi-se  beating  at  his  heart. 

And  all  this  while  the  husband  was  pacing  up  and 
down  the  street,  undergoing  a  struggle  almost  as  fierce, 
though  of  a  different  kind ! 

He  was  returning  home  just  as  Florence  left.  Sur- 
prised at  seeing  her  go  out  at  so  unusual  an  hour,  and 
without  the  carriage,  without  a  footman,  his  jealousy  was 
at  once  alarmed.  He  followed  her  at  a  short  distance, 
and  saw  her  enter  Bourne's  house.  He  was  now  strug- 
gling with  contending  passions. 

Florence  but  too  clearly  saw  that  she  had  been  de 
ceived:  that  Bourne  was  a  despicable  coward,  who 
trembled  for  himself,  and  therefore  would  not  protect 
her.  But  unwilling  to  relinquish  her  last  illusion,  she 
said,  timidly : 


1.0VE  IS  blind;  couch  not  his  eyes.        305 

"Dearest  Henry,  am  I  to  blame?  If  you  loved  me, 
did  you  not  wish  me  to  come  and  be  your  companion?" 

"No!"  he  retorted,  brutally. 

A  low  shriek  was  her  only  answer. 

"No!  not  at  snch  a  cost;  you  must  have  known  it." 

Having  vented  his  rage  in  this  brutal  speech,  he  re- 
sumed his  restless  walk,  absorbed  in  plans  for  escaping 
from  the  consequences  of  the  act  for  whose  immeasur- 
able folly  he  now  cursed  himself.  Nothing  is  so  cruel 
as  cowardice,  and  Bourne  v/as  an  utter  coward. 

Florence  stood  motionless,  as  if  endeavoring  to  col 
lect  her  ideas,  which  had  been  scattered  by  this  blow. 
There  are  moments  of  mental  paralysis  in  which  the 
bmin  has  only  a  dim  consciousness  of  all  around — a 
heavy  stupor  oppresses  the  faculties,  and  blunts  all  mental 
pain.  In  such  a  state  stood  Florence.  Her  eyes  were 
couched,  and  she  had  read  the  heart  of  her  seducer. 
She  knew  herself  to  have  been  his  dupe.  He  had  only 
acted  love ! 

A  street-organ  at  that  moment  began  playing  the 
duet  from  ^'■L'EIisire  d'Amore^'  which  Florence  had 
been  accustomed  to  sing  with  Ranthorpe.  In  an  instant, 
the  whole  drama  of  her  coquetry,  and  his  love,  again 
passed  before  her  mind. 

"  This  is  my  second,  punishment  for  that  wickedness," 
she  said,  in  a  mournful  under  tone,  speaking  to  herself 
"  I  did  not  think  my  crime  had  been  great.  But  it  must 
have  been.  The  measure  I  meted  out  to  him,  is  now 
meted  out  to  rae." 

Slowly  and  mechanically  she  turned  to  the  door. 
Bpurne  looked  up  at  her.  One  withering  sneer  was  all 
she  deigned  to  avenge  herself  with;  and  in  another 
instant  he  was  alone.     A  deep  sigh  seemed  to  remove 


306  RAM  THORPE. 

an  intolerable  load  from  his  breast.     He  instantly  com- 
menced preparations  for  quitting  England. 

She  descended  the  stairs  slowly,  opened  th.e  street- 
door,  and  found  herself  face  to  face  with  her  husband. 


CHAPTER     XII. 

DENOUEMENT. 

And  greadie  wormes  had  gnawen  this  payned  heart 
Without  its  feeling  pain. 

FERREX  AND    POKREX. 

Whatever  astonishment  Florence  might  have  felt 
at  this  unexpected  apparition  of  her  husband,  was 
merged  in  terror  as  she  accepted  his  quietly  proftered 
arm,  and  walked  with  him  down  the  street.  She  had 
such  an  opinion  of  his  remorseless  vengeance,  that  all 
present  suffering  was  for  a  moment  an-ested ;  she  could 
only  watch  his  countenance,  and  seek  to  divine  what 
was  going  on  in  his  heart.  He  was  deadly  pale,  and 
his  lips  were  compressed  together  by  an  effort.  But  his 
face  was  otherwise  impassive,  and  gave  no  indications 
of  what  was  passing  within. 

Some  fearful  retaliation  was  apparently  concealed 
beneath  that  stillness,  and  her  flesh  crept  as  she  watched 
his  pale,  calm  face. 

They  reached  home.  Sir  Frederick  gave  the  ser- 
vants some  trifling  orders  in  his  usual  tone;  and  on 
being  left  alone  with  Florence  in  the  drawing-room,  he 
sat  himself  at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  and  said : 

"  Lady  Hawbucke,  if  the  irreparable  wrong  that  you 
have  done  me,  has  not  quite  corrupted  you — if  there  is 


DENOUEMENT.  307 

any  particle  of  truth  and  honor  left  in  you,  answer  me 
truly:  How  long  have  you  and  he  understood  each 
other?" 

"  We  have  never  understood  each  odier." 

He  frowned,  3nd  almost  shook  with  rage.  Collect- 
ing his  ideas,  he  rose  and  said : 

"  I  might  have  expected  this." 

"  You  misapprehend.  When  I  said  we  had  never 
understood  each  other,  I  spoke  truly — he  never  under- 
stood me»  and  I — oh  God,  what  a  fearful  mistake  did  I 
make!  But  I  know  what  you  mean — and  I  will  answer. 
You  ask  me  how  long  he  has  known  that  I  loved  him. 
Since  last  night. — Would  that  I  had  died  before  that 
night !" 

He  started,  and  then  looking  incredulously  at  her, 
repeated : 

"  Since  last  night !" 

"  Yes ;  did  you  not  get  my  letter  ?  But  I  forgot—, 
there  was  nothing  of  that  in  it." 

"  Your  letter  }     Where  ?  when  ?" 

"  Go  into  your  dressing-room.     Read,  read." 

He  v/ent;  found  the  letter,  read  it,  and  returned. 

"  And  will  you  swear,"  he  said,  "  that  last  night  was 
the  first  time  you  had  spoken  of  love  to  him?" 

"  I  swear  it." 

"  Your  intention  was  then  to  quit  me  at  once  ?'^ 

"  It  was." 

'•  Thank  you  for  that:'  He  paused  awhile,  and  then 
said,  '■  But  w^hy  do  you  quit  him  /" 

•'  Because  he  is  a  despicable  coward — a  selfish  hypo- 
crite; because  I  found  that  I  had  been  his  dupe;  be- 
cause his  fear  of  you  betrayed  him  !" 

'•  Yet  you  loved  him  !"  he  bitterly  murmured. 


3o8  5LANTHORPE. 

She  wept,  but  made  no  reply.  A  long  pause  fol- 
lowed. The  scene  which  had  just  taken  place  had 
altogether  altered  the  cunent  of  Sir  Frederick's  thoughts. 
If  Bourne  was  such  a  coward,  that  he  would  rather 
brutally  repulse  a  lovely  woman  who*  threw  herself  into 
his  arms,  than  run  the  risk  of  braving  her  husband's 
vengeance,  it  was  quite  clear  that  he  would  never  insinu- 
ate anything  in  the  remotest  way  connected  with  the 
affair.  His  silence  was  certain.  As  their  understanding 
had  been  so  recent,  no  one  else  could  as  yet  have  been 
informed  of  it  On  this  score  also,  Sir  Frederick  felt 
relieved. 

Florence  was  eagerly,  though  furtively,  watching  him, 
and  augured  well  from  the  comparative  brightness  his 
face  assumed.  Her  terroi-s  ^gan  to  diminish.  They 
were  renewed,  however,  as  he  began  to  speak  again;  the 
glacial  tone  of  his  voice  was  more  terrible  than  any  vehe 
raence. 

"You  have  done  me  a  wrong;  you  can  in  some 
degree  repair  it.     Are  you  willing?" 

"  My  life  is  yours — take  it." 

"  I  have  no  need  of  it.  I  only  ask  you  to  save  youi 
character,  and  mine.  As  society  is  at  present  consti- 
tuted, your  acts  may  dishonor  me;  though  mine  cannot 
affect  you.  I  may  be  dissolute,  degraded;  and  your 
name  is  uncontaminated  by  my  acts.  But  the  slightest 
of  your  acts  touches  me  nearly;  and  when  you  forget 
your  own  self-respect,  you  drag  my  honor  with  you  into 
the  mire.  Pray  allow  me  to  proceed.  I  will  hear  you 
afterwards.  PFe  can  7to  longer  live  together.  I  relinquish 
the  com^bat.  I  cannot  defend  my  own  name.  I  with- 
draw. But,  mark  me,  the  wish  for  separation  must 
spring  from  you — the  cause  from  me.     You  must  con- 


DENOUEMENT.  309 

tinue  to  act  the  pure  wife — I  must  be  the  unfaithful 
husband.     You  must  be  above  suspicion." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

'*If  we  part  now,  or  if  we  part  from  any  cause 
alleged  by  me,  your  character  will  be  stained — and 
mine  with  it  If  I  give  the  cause,  both  our  characters 
will  be  untarnished.  In  one  month  hence,  you  shall 
discover  in  my  desk  letters  written  to  me  from  some 
abandoned  woman.  These  you  will  take  to  your  mother, 
heart-broken  and  indignant  You  are  actress  enough 
for  that.  You  will  insist  on  a  separation.  You  will  be 
inflexible.  The  separation  will  take  place,  and  all  the 
world  will  say,  '  Poor  thing,  she  has  been  dreadfully 
used!'" 

"And  what  will  they  say  of  you?" 

"  Nothing — except  perhaps  to  wonder  at  my  taste. 
But  let  them  say  what  they  please,  I  preserve  my  name 
spotless.     Are  you  prepared  to  play  this  little  farce  ?" 

"If  you  insist." 

"I  insist." 

"  Then  I  have  no  will." 

"  That  shall  be  my  vengeance." 

He  left  the  room.  She  remained  almost  bewildered 
at  what  had  passed-  For  a  long  while  she  was  incredu- 
lous. Could  he  be  devising  some  fearful  vengeance 
under  this;  or  was  it  simply,  as  he  said,  a  plan  for  the 
preservation  of  his  name  from  suspicion  ? 

Her  terrors  once  banished,  her  grief  returned.  But 
it  was  a  silent  grief — a  stupor,  not  a  passion. 


A  few  months  after   the   events  just  recorded,  Sir 
Henry  Varden  came  home  one  day,  and  said  to  his  wife : 


3IO 


RANTHORPE. 


"  Really,  m)^  dear,  Catholicism  is  making  alanning 
progress  in  England.  Who  do  you  think  has  recently 
become  a  convert  ?" 

"  Who  ?     Don't  tantalize  me." 

"  Lady  Hawbucke.  I  have  it  from  her  mother,  who 
is  inconsolable,  and  highly  indignant  with  her  daughter. 
It  seems  but  the  other  day  rhe  was  separated,  and  no^\ 
she  turns  Catholic !" 

"  As  a  refuge,  I  suppose,  from  her  sorrows." 

"  Egad,  if  all  the  women  whose  husbands  are  incon- 
Titant  threw  themselves  into  the  arms  of  the  Church  of 
Rome,  England  will  soon  be  under  the  thumb  of  the 
Pope." 

"  Don't  talk  so,  my  dear  Sir  Henry.  I  quite  wonder 
at  you.  Poor  Lady  Hawbucke!  WeU,  who  would 
have  thought  it  ?" 


CHAPTER     XIII. 

THE    LOVERS. 

Wenn  alle  Menschen  ein  paar  Liebende  waren,  so  fiele  der  Unter- 
schied  zwischen  Mysticismus  und  Nicht-Mysticismus  weg, 

NOVALIS. 

What  is  love  ?  Ask  him  who  Uves,  what  is  life  ?  ask  him  who 
adores,  what  is  God? 

Shelley. 

And  now  the  little  circle  of  our  friends  is  happy 
again ;  greatly  to  my  relief,  as  doubtless  to  that  also  of 
the  reader.  We  have  had  nothing  but  tears  for  some 
time ;  every  thing  seemed  to  go  wrong,  and  every  bod}- 
to  be  miserable. 

Now,  although  misery  is   a  good  condiment,  it  is  a 


THE    LOVERS.  3II 

bad  food.  It  may  leavt^n  our  daily  life;  it  may  heighten 
it  with  glimpses  of  something  above  and  around  it,  of 
which  the  senses  give  no  intimation;  it  may  help  to 
sharpen  the  gusto  of  pleasure ;  it  may  add  a  tenderness 
to  content :  but  it  will  not  suffice  for  the  staple  of  life, 
nor  of  fiction,  which  pretends  to  image  life.  The  reader 
gets  tired  of  tears;  his  sympathies  become  exhausted. 
The  writer  also  gets  tired :  his  vocabulary  becomes  ex- 
hausted. Thus  it  is  fortunate  for  all  sakes,  that  our 
friends  happen  to  be  all  smiles  and  hopes  just  now. 

I  sola  and  Percy  were  extremely  happy — happy  as 
lovers  in  their  height  of  bliss. 

Harry  was  happy.  At  first,  indeed,  a  shadow  of 
melancholy  darkened  his  soul,  but  the  glory  of  a  virtuous 
action  supported  him.  It  delighted  while  it  pained  him 
to  see  Isola  happy ;  he  felt  that  he  had  done  well,  but 
he  was  human,  and  could  not  altogether  repress  a  feel- 
ing of  jealousy.  I  am  not  sure  that  he  would  ever  have 
been  perfectly  reconciled  to  his  act,  had  he  not  found 
consolation  in  his  love  for  Fanny.  ^' 

Yes,  reader — for  Fanny  !  There  is  deep  meaning  in 
the  proverb,  "  Many  a  heart  caught  in  the  rebound." 
No  want  is  more  imperious  than  the  want  to  love.  And 
Harry  had,  for  the  last  tv/o  months,  been  constantly 
thrown  with  Fanny,  to  be  consoled  by  her,  to  be  sym- 
pathized with  by  her,  to  talk  of  love  to  her,  and  finally 
to  talk  love  to  her.  Parkr  P amour  c' est  f aire  Pafnozcr: 
another  true  proverb ! 

If  any  reader  should  accuse  Harry  of  inconstancy, 
levity,  or  want  of  true  affection,  he  will  be  grievously 
mistaken.  It  was  owing  to  the  very  overflowing  excess 
of  his  affection  that  he  loved  another.  His  heart  could 
not  be  void.     He  saw  the  hazel  eyes  of  Fanny  full  of 


312  RANTHOflPE. 

love  for  him,  and  he  was  subdued  by  tiiera.  Isola  was 
lost  to  him ;  Fanny  was  there,  ready  to  console  him. 
Did  he  not  act  wisely  in  allowing  himself  to  be  consoled  ? 
He  did.  Or  rather  he  could  not  help  it.  He  glided 
imperceptibly  into  love ! 

And  Faiiny !  She  had  seen  much  of  him,  and  learned 
to  prize  him  dearly,  before  the  flattering  idea  of  one  day 
gaining  his  love  ever  crossed  her  m.ind.  She  knew  him 
as  the  noble,  generous,  affianced  lover  of  her  friend ;  and 
chis  knowledge  had  removed  all  the  constraint  in  her 
manner;  she  could  talk  to  him  without  fear — but  not 
without  danger !  Poor  Fanny !  hers  was  a  heart  made 
to  love ;  but  her  natural  shyness  had  kept  her  a  stranger 
to  the  feeling,  until  she  indulged  it  for  Ranthorpe,  and 
after  that  illusion  had  been  dispelled,  she  had  never  dared 
to  raise  her  eyes  to  another.  But  Harry  she  had  knowii 
in  all  the  intimacy  of  exquisite  unresei've.  A  brother 
could  not  have  been  more  dear  to  her.  And  it  was  not 
until  his  disinterested  renunciation  of  Isola  had  broken 
the  relation  which  formerly  subsisted  between  them,  that 
she  became  at  all  aware  of  the  condition  of  her  heart; 
she  was  then  too  f.ir  gone  to  retract,  even  had  she  desired 
it. 

These  two  creatures  loved  each  other;  but  there  was 
something  strange  and  feverish  in  their  affection.  They 
had  both  occasional  twinges  of  jealousy.  Harry  could 
not  always  see  without  a  pang  the  silent  adoration  with 
which  Isola  gazed  upon  Percy.  Fanny  could  not  fail  to 
rem.ark  it. 

In  spite  of  this  little  occasional  twinge  our  four  lovers 
spent  a  dehcious  time  of  it.  Percy  and  Isola  saw  clearly 
enough  the  state  of  their  friends'  hearts,  and  only  awaited 
the  avowal.     That  came  at  la^t.     They  used  always  to 


THK   LOVERS.  313 

assemble  at  Isola's  in  the  evening,  and  the  twilight  was 
]:)rolonged  to  the  utmost ;  and  when  candles  were  at  last 
inevitable,  they  consoled  themselves  with  music  for  the 
loss  of  those  mysterious  feelings  v/hich  seem  only  fitted 
for  the  vague  and  dreamy  twilight.  And  what  hours 
^vere  those  of  twilight ! 

In  one  of  them,  Percy  and  I  sola  were  seated  in  the 
'.'/indow  recess,  hand  clasped  in  hand,  speechless  from 
unutterable  emotion,  gazing  into  each  other's  eyes,  his 
.:.heek  gently  brushing  her  silken  hair,  whose  perfume 
thrilled  his  soul,  with  vague  voluptuous  ecstasy.  Fanny 
gently  ran  her  fingers  over  the  chords  of  the  piano,  pro- 
ducing wild  and  plaintive  sounds  like  those  ravished 
from  an  ^olian  harp;  and  Hany  sat  close  to  her,  his 
elbow  leaning  on  the  piano,  his  head  resting  on  his 
hand,  gazing  at  her  in  silent  adoration.  The  plaintive 
chords  moved  him  strangely.  He  begged  her  to  sing; 
and  in  a  soft,  small,  but  touching  voice,  she  sang 
Paisiello's  //  mio  ben.  He  had  heard  Isola  sing  this; 
and  her  magnificent  voice,  every  intonation  of  which 
made  the  hearer  vibrate  beneath  its  mysterious  power, 
would  have  made  the  singing  of  a  Malibran  or  a  Grisi 
ineffective  in  comparison;  but  Fanny's  small,  veiled,  yet 
pathetic  voice  had  a  charm  of  its  own,  whicli  if  not 
r^eatly  musical  was  intensely  affecting. 

The  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  He  could  not  thank 
her.  He  continued  to  gaze  at  her,  and  she  turned  her 
hazel  eyes  upon  him :  their  light  shone  through  the  dark- 
ness, and  he  read  their  meaning.  Then,  for  the  first 
time,  did  he  read  their  meaning  aright — then  did  he  feel 
she  loved  him!  No  word  of  love  had  crossed  their  lips; 
and  yet  in  this  sudden  inspiration  all  their  passion  was 
revealed.     He  gently  placed  iris  hand  in  hers:  a  bum- 


3 1' 4      ^  RANTHORPE. 

ing  pressure  was  the  reply.  He  bent  forvvard,  and  their 
lips  met  in  one  long  fervid  kiss.  In  that  moment  they 
were  affianced! 

The  happiness  of  Percy  and  I  sola  now  was  complete. 
The  engagement  of  Harry  and  Fanny,  which  they  had 
quickly  foreseen,  removed  the  only  obstacle  to  their  per- 
fect happiness.  New  feelings  had  sprung  up  in  Percy's 
breast  during  the  last  month,  which  made  him  regard 
marriage  with  peculiar  solemnity.  In  fact,  he  had  not 
loved^  properly  speaking,  till  now.  His  senses  had  been 
inflamed,  his  imagination  dazzled,  and  the  yearning, 
eager,  all-curious  heart  of  the  boy  had  been  occupied; 
but  his  love  had  been  the  love  of  a  boy. 

The  love  of  a  boy  differs  from  that  of  a  man  in  this 
— it  is  the  wanton  enjoym.ent  of  a  present  imperious 
feelmg,  from  which  all  serious  consideration  of  the  future 
is  excluded  It  is  mere  blind  activity  of  newly-awakened 
emotions.  Hence  the  rashness  of  early  loves.  The  bo\- 
wants  to  love;  almost  any  woman  will  suffice.  Hence 
he  is  violent,  capricious,  inconstant,  because  he  only 
seeks  an  excitement;  he  tries  his  young  wings.  The 
tender  feeling  of  protectioji^  which  enters  so  largely  into 
the  love  of  a  man, — the  serious  thoughts  of  the  duties  he 
owes  to  the  girl  who  gives  up  her  life  to  him,  and  to  the 
children  she  may  bear  him, — these,  and  the  thousand 
minute  but  powerful  influences  which  affect  the  man,  arc 
unknown  to  the  boy. 

Percy  Ranthorpe  felt  that  he  was  entering  upon  the 
most  important  epoch  of  his  life.  Already  had  many  things 
become  clearer  to  him.     He  could  say,  with  Shelley, 

"  In  no  communion  with  this  purest  being 
Kindled  intenser  zeal,  and  made  me  wise 
In  knowledge  which,  in  liers  my  own  mind  seeing, 
Left  in  the  human  world  few  mysteries." 


THE    COURSE    OF    TRUE    LOVE  31. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE    COURSE    OF    TRUE    LOVE. 

Let  them  anatomize  Regan,  see  what  breeds  about  her  heart.  Is 
there  any  cause  in  nature  makes  these  hard  hearts? 

Shakspeare, 

The  insolence  of  lovers !  They  always  imagine  that 
when  they  have  avowed  their  love  to  each  other,  the 
whole  business  is  completed.  Parents  are  nonentities, 
settlements  are  figments.  Whoever  thinks  of  one  or  the 
other  ? 

But,  alas!  Fanny  and  her  lover  were  somewhat 
rudely  awakened  to  the  existence  of  parental  authority 
by  the  plain,  unqualified  refusal  to  the  marriage,  with 
which  her  mother  answered  Harry's  application.  It  was 
more  than  a  refusal — it  was  an  insult.  Indeed,  w^hen 
Lady  Wilmington  heard  of  her  daughter's  engagement 
with  an  obscure  surgeon,  the  reader  may  imagine  her  in- 
dignation, and  the  vehemence  with  which  she  protested 
the  marriage  should  never  take  place.  Unfortunately, 
Fanny,  though  almost  broken-hearted  at  her  mother's 
refusal,  could  not  be  persuaded  to  dispense  with  her  con- 
sent. She  dared  not  brave  her  mother's  anger;  not 
from  any  love  she  felt  towards  her,  but  fi-om  an  exag- 
gerated sense  of  duty  and  gratitude.  Her  mother  had 
always  treated  her  with  marked  indifference;  but  she 
was,  nevertheless,  her  mother. 

The  reader  is  already  somewhat  acquainted  with 
Lady  Wilmington's  character ;  one  or  two  touches  more 
are  necessary  to  complete  the  picture. 

Lady  Wilmington  was  considered  irreproachable  by 


^l6  RANTHORPE. 

her  friends,  and  invulnerable  by  her  enemies.  If  the 
term  "  respectable,"  could  consistently  be  applied  to  any 
of  the  class  to  which  she  belonged,  one  would  say  that 
she  was  eminently  "respectable."  She  had  preserv^ed 
her  virtue  ( ! )  from  the  breath  of  slander — a  breath  which 
Shakspeare  says  a  woman  cannot  escape,  though  "  chaste 
as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow," — but  I  never  said  Lady  Wil- 
mington was  chaste  as  ice.  She  had  never  opened  her 
doors  to  any  woman  whose  frailties  had  been  openly 
canvassed.  She  went  to  church — once  a  month.  She 
gave  her  name  to  subscriptions  to  several  charitable  in- 
stitutions :  her  name^  indeed,  but  rarely  her  m.oney. 
Generosity,  charity,  and  other  Christian  sentiments, 
were  for  ever  on  her  lips;  a  fact  which,  perha.ps,  ac- 
counted for  their  absence  elsewhere. 

A  character  like  hers,  reduced  to  its  strict  fonnula — 
without  heart  as  without  intellect — appears,  at  first  sight, 
the  mere  exaggeration  of  a  novelist,  and  the  reader  re- 
fuses to  believe  that  such  a  woman  could  anywhere  be 
tolerated.  But,  good  and  gentle  reader!  I  have  not 
been  thus  minute  in  painting  a  mere  exaggeration.  It  is 
a  portrait — taken  at  many  sittings,  and  under  many 
different  lights — a  portrait,  unfortunately,  that  might  be 
hung  up  in  many  a  drawing-room,  and  pronounced 
"most  like." 

And  yet  is  it  not  strange  that  the  reader  should  doubt 
its  truth,  because,  although  the  features  themselves  are 
iieither  untrue  nor  exaggerated,  yet  inasmuch  as  the  ex- 
pression is  absent,  go  the  face  seems  revolting.  I  have 
given  the  moral  characteristics  of  Lady  Wilmington:  but 
the  ma7i?ier,  which  was  as  drapery  to  her  worthlessness — 
manner  by  which  most  people  are  judged — this  I  could 
not  give. 


THE    COURSE    OF    TRUE    LOVE.  317 

Not  that  her  manner  was  more  winning  than  that  of 
ordinary  people ;  but  such  as  it  was,  it  served  to  cover  a 
hideous  skeleton.  Perfect  in  all  those  movements  which 
nothing  but  long  habit  can  successfully  assume,  and 
which  demarcates  the  aristocracy  from  the  rest  of  society, 
her  very  affectations  seemed  to  be  natural  to  her.  Soft, 
languishing,  low-voiced,  and  indifferent,  she  was  almost 
made  up  of  negations,  and  thus  never  offended.  There 
was  an  absence  of  every  thing  positive  in  her  manner, 
which  presented  any  single  poiiit  either  for  approval  or 
dislike;  except  when  she  startled  by  a  sarcasm,  and  then, 
indeed,  she  seemed  to  compensate  for  previous  languor 
by  the  sparkling  malice  of  her  eyes.  The  most  cold  and 
cruel  things  were  uttered  with  a  gusto  which  made  you 
start,  especially  in  so  languid  a  person :  it  was,  indeed, 
revolting  to  see  this  soft-mannered  woman  suddenly 
aroused  to  eager  cruelty  (which  alone  seemed  capable  of 
arousing  her) — it  was  like  looking  on  the  sleek,  velvety 
paws  of  a  tiger,  out  of  which  softness  suddenly  spring 
hideous  talons ! 

Fanny,  with  her  opposite  sentiments,  soon  detected 
her  mother's  adoration  of  the  world,  and  the  world's 
ways,  and  thought  she  sacrificed  too  much  to  it;  but  she 
had  not  the  slightest  suspicion  of  her  insincerity;  and 
had  heard  her  so  often  attribute  to  herself  the  virtue  oi 
generosity,  charity,  self-sacrifice,  and  religion,  that  she 
received  the  existence  of  these  as  matters  of  course. 

Affection  there  was  none  between  them :  all  her  ad- 
vances to  her  mother  had  been  repelled ;  all  her  senti- 
ments opposed ;  and  all  her  sympathies  ridiculed.  But 
Fanny  could  not  forget  the  relationship;  and  her  mother 
hoped,  she  said : 

"  That  no  daughter  of  mine  can  ever  forget  the  zm- 


3l8  RANTHORPE. 

mense  debt  of  gi-atitude  she  owes  to  me — never  forget  the 
sacrifices  I  have  made  for  m.y  children — sacrifices  which 
no  other  mother  would  have  made." 

Fanny  did  not  clearly  comprehend  in  v/hat  this  debt 
consisted,  but  as  her  mother  was  always  referring  to  it, 
she  could  not  doubt  that  it  had  been  contracted.  The 
'*  sacrifices  "  having  never  been  specified,  were  equally 
received  upon  trust;  and  the  deed,  or  deeds,  which  no 
other  mother  would  have  done,  were  left  to  her  force  of 
imagination.  In  sober  seriousness  Fanny  believed  her- 
self bound,  more  than  any  other  child  had  ever  been,  to 
sacrifice  herself  for  the  pai-ent  who  had  done  so  much 
for  her.  So  that  in  spite  of  the  want  of  filial  love,  there 
was  a  strong  sense  of  filial  duty  in  poor  Fanny's  breast ; 
and  when  her  mother  wept  v.  ith  her  at  the  mention  of 
Harry — when  she  declaimed  in  her  usual  style  on  the 
sacrifices  she  had  made,  and  which  were  thus  to  be  re- 
quited ;  when  she  painted  the  hoiTor  she  should  suffer 
from  such  a  disgraceful  alliance;  when  she  told  her  what 
the  world  would  say,  alread)  too  busy  as  it  was  with  her 
unfortunate  sister,  Florence;  how  it  would  blame  the 
parent  who  consented,  more  than  the  child  who  lost  her- 
self; and  how  this  "  would  infallibly  shorten  her  days," 
— can  we  wonder  that  Fanny's  heart  sunk  within  her, 
and  that  she  determined  not  to  act  in  outrage  to  the 
feelings  of  one  "  who  had  done  so  nmch  for  her  ?" 

She  trusted  that  time  would  soften  her  mother's  ob- 
jections; trusted  that  when  her  mother  saw  how  real  and 
unshakable  was  the  love  she  bore  him,  consent  would 
not  be  long  withheld.     She  little  knew  her  mother! 

Percy  and  Isola,  as  may  be  expected,  were  deeply 
distressed  at  Harry's  situation.  On  finding  Lady  Wil- 
mington so  opposed  to  the  match,  Percy  called  on  her. 


THE    COURSE    OF    TRUE    LOVE.  319 

He  had  not  been  within  her  doors  since  that  day  on 
which  Florence  rejected  him;  and  it  was  with  violent 
agitation  that  he  ascended  the  staircase.  He  mastered 
his  fedings  sufficiently  to  meet  Lady  Wilmington  with 
becoming  sauvity.  She  was  delighted  to  see  him,  for  he 
was  celebrated,  and  she  had  been  often  foiled  in  her 
attempts  to  allure  him  to  her  house.  She  upbraided 
iiim  with  his  fickleness  towards  "old  friends,"  and  told 
him  that  she  must  positively  keep  him  to  dinner.  He 
accepted;  made  himself  immenselv  agreeable,  and  hav- 
ing stayed  till  all  the  guests  had  departed,  he  opened  to 
her  the  real  purpose  of  his  visit.  She  was  indignant  at 
the  idea  of  the  match.  He  was  eloquent — earnest — ^but 
he  had  to  do  with  Lady  Wilmington.  He  left  the  house, 
bitterly  convinced  that  her  consent  would  never  be  given. 

On  hearing  this,  Wynton,  who  had  been  powerfully 
affected  by  the  noble  generosity  displayed  by  Harry,  told 
Percy  that  he  thought  of  going  himself  to  Lady  Wil- 
mington, and  interceding  in  his  friend's  behalf. 

"I  have  a  strange  suspicion  that  she  will  be  in  some 
way  influenced  by  me." 

"I  fear  not,  Wynton.     But  you  can  try." 

"  It  will  be  extremely  painful  for  me  to  see  her — I 
have  not  seen  her  since  the  day  on  which  she  became 
Lady  Wilmington  I  Yet,  for  Harry,  I  would  do  a  great 
deal.  Indeed,  I  should  be  ashamed  to  consider  my  own 
feelings  in  a  case  where  he  is  concerned — he,  v/ho  so 
little  considers  his  own!" 

On  the  following  day,  Lady  Wilmington  was  sitting 
in  her  drawing-room,  really  vexed.  She  was  not  apt  to 
be  angry;  but  she  had  that  morning  suffered  a  shock  In 
her  tenderest  point.  Fanny  had  refused — positively  re- 
fused— a  brilliant  match.      The  girl's  head  w^as  com- 


320  RA>3TH0RPE. 

pletely  turned  by  silly  romance.  She  had  thrown  away 
her  best  chance  of  happiness;  and  throvni  it  away  out 
of  some  nonsensical  feelings  for  an  adventurer.  Lady 
Wilmington  almost  stormed.  What  could  the  girl  ex- 
pect ?  What  could  she  come  to  ?  Was  that  the  way 
to  gain  a  mother's  consent  ?  Was  that  the  way  to  gain 
a  mother's  pardon  ? 

Lady  Wilmington  was  a.stonished. 

Still  greater  was  her  astonishment  and  agitation  sa^ 
the  servant  handed  her  a  card  on  which  she  read .  Wyn 
ton's  name.  Scarcely  conscious  of  what  she  was  saying, 
she  bade  that  he  should  be  admitted;  and  before  she  had 
recovered  her  self-possession,  her  former  lover  stood 
before  her. 

Wynton  was  deadly  pale.  His  countenance  betokened 
the  mastery  of  a  dreadful  struggle  passing  within.  Hi: 
bearing  was  haughty  and  cold;  the  perfect  reverse  of  hi; 
usual  manner.  He  had  struggled;  he  had  conquered; 
and  he  was  there; — there,  in  the  presence  of  her  whom 
he  had  not  seen  for  twenty  years!  The  sight  would 
at  all  times  have  been  painful  to  him;  but  to  see  her  sc 
changed — to  see  the  giddy,  lovely,  heartless,  but  fasci 
nating  girl,  grown  into  the  sedate,  heartless,  and  repulsivt 
woman,  was  what  he  had  not  prepared  himself  for. 

He,  too,  was  changed,  and  she  noticed  it.  Twenty 
years  of  struggle  and  improvidence  had  robbed  him  of 
his  personal  advantages;  but  it  had  not  robbed  him  o; 
his  intellectual  superiority;  and  in  the  careworn,  intelli- 
gent, haughty  man  who  now  stood  before  her,  she  saw 
httle  change  for  the  worse. 

She  rose  and  held  out  her  hand.  He  remained  mo- 
tionless, as  if  disdaming  to  notice  her  advances.  She 
walked  towards  him,  and,  with  sudden  warmth,  said : 


THE    COURSE    OF    TRUE    LOVE.  32 1 

"Let  us  be  friends." 

He  fixed  his  eyes  steadily  upon  hers ;  they  did  not 
waver  beneath  his  glance.  He  answered  coldly,  while  a 
sneer  quivered  his  lip : 

"Your  ladyship  forgets  I  was  your  brother's  tutor." 

She  was  piqued,  and  said  reproachfully : 

"  I  only  remember  that  I  once  loved  you." 

"Loved?" 

"Yes,  loved.  Ah!  I  know  how  shockingly  I 
behaved  to  you.  But,  indeed,  it  w^as  not  my  fault.  I 
had  not  courage  to  go  through  with  my  part.  When  I 
saw  all  my  friends  assembled — when  I  heard  myself  called 
upon  to  pronounce  the  fatal  'Yes,' — I  was  frightened, 
and  pronounced  it.  Had  you  been  there — had  1  but 
caught  a  glimpse  of  your  eye,  I  should  have  braved  them 
all.  But  I  was  alone,  and  I  was  hurried  into  a  marriage 
I  abhorred." 

She  spoke  with  warmth;  a  bitter  sneer  was  all  the 
answer  he  could  give.  She  perceived  it,  and  sinking  in- 
to  a  chair,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  wept. 
She  was  acting.  Yet,  as  so  often  happens  with  persons 
of  keen  nervous  sensibility,  she  felt  something  of  that 
passion  which  she  w^as  portraying.  Above  all,  she  wished 
to  impress  him  with  belief  in  her  sincerity.  The  more 
incredulous  he  appeared,  the  more  she  redoubled  her 
efforts.  At  that  moment  she  would  have  given  anything 
to  see  a  tear  in  his  eye,  to  hear  the  words  of  pardon  from 
his  lips. 

She  had  nearly  succeeded,  when  he  broke  to  her  the 
object  of  his  visit.  "  You  can  remove  my  doubts  at  once," 
he  said.  "  Give  your  consent  to  the  marriage  of  your 
daughter  with  the  man  she  loves,  and  you  will  best  con- 
vince me  that  you  really  prize  affection  above  wealth." 


32  2  PANTHORPK. 

"  Consent  to  I'anny's  maniagc  ?" 

"  Ah  !   I  see — you  shrink  fronn  it." 

"  No,  no,  no.  BeUeve  nie,  no.  If  she  really  loves 
him.  There — I  will  consent.  Now,  are  you  convinc- 
ed ?"     He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

•'You  have  made  me  happy,"  said  he. 

"  Then  you  forgive  me  ?" 

•■  1  do."  Wynton  did  forgive  her  at  the  moment. 
He  had  not,  however,  long  left  the  house  before  his  old 
opinion  of  her  returned,  and  he  looked  upon  that  scene 
as  a  well-acted  piece  of  sentiment.  But  the  motive  he 
could  not  fathom. 

Let  me  endeavor  to  explain  it.  Lady  Wilmington 
was,  as  I  said,  a  creature  of  sensidve  nerves,  but  -small 
brain.  She  was  consequently  a  creature  of  impulses. 
The  impulse  to  convince  Wynton  of  her  not  being  the 
worthless  creature  he  nuist  necessarily  think  her,  was 
naturally  a  strong  one.  To  convince  him,  she  was  reck- 
less as  to  the  means.  I]esides,  the  fact  of  Faimy's  re- 
fusal of  a  brilliant  match,  seemed  to  indicate  an  obsti- 
nacy her  mother  had  little  hope  of  conquering.  And  if 
Fanny  would  not  make  a  good  match,  there  was  less 
harm  in  her  making  a  bad  one.  This  had  some  inrtuenc(» 
with  her  mother. 

And  thus  the,  cold,  heartless  woman,  who  would 
never  have  consented  to  "a  degrading  alliance,"  al- 
thougii  her  daughter's  happiness  depended  on  it,  con- 
sented to  it  for  the  sake  of  a  litde  triumph  in  acting. 

This  would  be  incredible,  did  we  not  know  that  ic- 
such  an  egotist,  a  daughter's  happiness  was  nothing;  but 
a  successful  piece  of  acting  was  an  intense  gradfication. 
It  is  frightful  to  think  that  there  are  such  people,  and 
that  those  people  should  be  parents;  but  it  is   unfor 


PEAL    THE    MARRIAGE    BELLS.  ^2^ 

tunately  too  true.  I,  who  paint  this  portrait,  seriously 
and  soberly  declare  that  I  subdue^  rather  than  exagger- 
ate, the  colors.  Had  I  drawn  in  all  her  hideousness 
the  original  who  sat  for  this  picture,  the  reader  would 
have  turned  away  in  incredulous  disgust.  Let  him 
profit,  if  he  can,  from  the  feeble  sketch. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

PEAL    THE    MARRIAGE    BELLS. 

Come  home,  home  to  my  heart,  thou  banish'd  peace; 
Hymen  shall  now 

Set  all  his  torches  burning  to  give  hght 
Throughout  the  land. 

Ford  ;  Lover  s  MeUiucholy. 

And  now  our  hero's  troubles  are  o'er.  He  is  happy; 
his  bride  stands  at  the  altar  beside  him.  Behind  him  are 
Harry  and  Fanny,  waiting  also  to  be  united  by  the  same 
priest. 

Privately,  in  Kensington  Church,  were  these  four 
married ;  and  seldom  has  any  church  been  graced  with 
four  nobler-  beings.  Isola  was  magnificent.  The  flush 
of  modesty,  tlie  bride's  delicious  color,  had  given  her 
cheek  that  tinge  which  at  other  times  it  wanted,  and  had 
given  to  her  calm,  deep  eyes,  a  passion  and  a  brilliancy 
which  stirred  the  depths  of  the  spectator's  soul.  She  was 
incomparably  beautiful  at  that  moment.  Ranthorpe 
gazed  u])on  her  with  passionate  pride;  and  felt  his  heart 
too  full,  as  lie  thought  how,  after  so  many  struggles,  he 
had  found  at  length  the  path  of  peace ;  how,  after  many 
wanderings  on  the  rugged  highway,  he  liad  reached  the 
Happy  Valley. 


324  l^AN'IHORPE. 

Only  second  to  them  in  chcamis  were  Han-y  and 
Fpnny.  She  looked  as  beautiful  on  that  occasion  to 
strangers,  as  she  was  always  to  those  who  loved  her. 
Shy,  and  tremblingly  happy,  she  formed  a  pleasant  con- 
trast to  her  friend ;  and  as  she  looked  up  into  the  noble 
countenance  of  her  lover,  and  met  his  fond,  yn-otecting 
gaze,  she  made  as  sweet  a  ]jicture  of  the  timid  gcnde- 
woman  as  painter  or  poet  could  desire.  But  although 
there  was  litde  pomp  displayed  at  the  wedding,  it  had  a 
splendor  of  its  own  in  the  warmth  of  the  affections  there- 
in engaged.  All  our  hero's  old  friends  were  present. 
Joyce  looked  more  sunny  than  ever,  and  Wynton  gave 
Isola  away.  Lady  Theresa  and  Lady  Wilmington  were 
both  stiffly  present ;  and  an  uncle  of  Fanny's,  a  bright, 
good-humored  creature,  gave  her  away. 

Were  mine  a  female's  pen,  I  would  delight  you  with 
a  minute  and  vivacious  account  of  the  whole  ceremony, 
dresses  and  all.  I  wc>uld  tell  you  how  every  one  be- 
haved, from  the  bride  down  to  the  pew-opener.  I  w^ould 
introduce  you  to  the  breakfast,  and  its  exhilarating  fes- 
tivity. In  a  word,  I  w^ould  place  before  you,  imaginative 
reader,  all  that  I  must  now  leave  to  your  imagination. 
But  my  pen  has  no  such  power. 


EPILOGUK. 


!•:  P  1  L  O  G  U  E  . 


Then  scntly  scnn  your  brother  man  ; 

Still  gentler  sister  woman. 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin"  \vr: 

To  step  aside  is  human. 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark— 

The  moving  jiihy  they  do  it ; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far,  perhaps,  the\-  rue  it. 


Rlrx; 


He  was  a  man  who  preached  from  the  text  uf  his  own  errors  ;  and 
whose  wisdom,  beautiful  as  a  flower  that  might  ha\e  risen  from  seed 
sown  from  above,  was,  \\\  f;^ct,  a  scion  from  the  root  of  personal 
suffering. 

\\'()KI)S\V(iRTII   (i>f  l.)Urii>). 

Ranthurpe  is  nov\-  exquisitely  liapj))-.  Two  children 
are  playing  round  bis  knees,  an<l  twining  their  embraces 
round  his  heart.  I  sola  grows  more  lovely  ever)'  time  I 
see  her,  and  not  even  maternity,  and  increased  ex- 
perience of  the  world,  seem  to  brush  off  the  bloom  ol 
that  simplicity  and  ingenuousness  which  makes  hfer  a 
godlike  child.  Harry  is  also  a  hap})y  husband  and  father; 
and  Fanny  the  hai)piest  of  wives,  and  most  anxious  of 
inothers. 

Ranthorpe's  life  is  now  one  of  activity  and  happiness; 
the  true  ideal  of  an  author's  life.  He  has  bitterly  ex- 
piated his  early  error;  and  in  that  expiation  recovered 
the  purity  and  independence  of  mind,  the  confidence  in 
his  mission,  and  reliance  on  his  means  of  fulfilling  it, 
without  Avhich  a  man  may  indeed  become  rich  anti 
l^opular,  but  no  man  can  become  a  great  author.  How- 
much  of  his  present  serenity  ot  mind  he  owes  to  Isola, 
let  those  answer  who   have  known  the  gentle  influence 


326  RANTHORP!  , 

of  a  woman.  Certain  it  is,  that  if  those  who  remember 
his  early  efforts  compare  them  with  liis  later  works,  they 
may  marvel  at  the  delicacy  and  gentleness,  wedded  to 
strength  and  solidity,  which  jjresent  such  a  contrast  to 
tlie  turbulence,  inequality,  and  exaggeration  of  his 
*'  Dreams  of  Youth,"  and  "  Quintus  Curtius." 

He  has  won  his  spurs.  His  genius  has  begun  to  take 
its  magniticent  flight  far  above  the  reach  of  other  v/ings. 
He  is  in  his  twenty-fifth  year,  and  his  genius  is  free  to 
operate  untrammelled  upon  the  materials  afforded  him 
by  experience.  He  has  felt,  and  he  has  thought :  he  has 
dreamed,  and  he  has  suffered.  He  is  novv  to  '-  preach 
from  the  text  of  his  own  errors  " — to  make  hiis  experience 
incarnate  in  song. 

After  many  a  gidiiy  faintness,  and  many  a  sick  des- 
pondency, he  has  reached  a  table-land,  from  whence  he 
can  look  down  calmly  on  the  path  before  him.  He  has 
walked  up  through  mists,  but  has  reached  a  certain 
height.  The  storms  are  below  him.  The  poor  at- 
torney's clerk  has  become  an  honored  author.  He  is  no 
longer  vulgarly  lionized ;  he  is  respected  and  courted. 
His  footing  in  society  is  no  longer  dependent  upon  the 
caprice  of  a  drawing-room.  It  is  the  security  of  that  in- 
tellectual power  which  forces  the  world  to  bend  the 
knee.  The  poor,  dreamy  boy,  self-taught,  self-aided, 
has  risen  into  power.  He  wields  a  pen.  And  the  pen, 
in  our  age,  weighs  heavier  in  the  social  scale  than  the 
sword  of  a  Norman  Baron  f 


THE    END. 


Illlllimrilim^^  LIBRARIES 

C0SSDt,bE7fl 


